Work to Do
by Goldleaf83
Summary: A story set around Hogan's overnight trip to England in the run-up to D-Day. A sequel of sorts to my earlier stories "The General Swap" and "There's No Place Like Stalag 13." It's not necessary to have read them to get this one, but this ties up a few trailing threads that you may enjoy if you've read them. Part of Abracadebra's D-Day Commemoration Challenge. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This story finishes up a plot arc that started in "Swapping Generals" and continued in "There's No Place Like Stalag 13," my rewrites of the episodes "The General Swap" and "Hogan Go Home." I've pulled them together in a sequence never intended in the original television series. I'm resolving a few remaining dangling plot threads in this final story, which is essentially a set of missing scenes set before and during the first part of "D-Day at Stalag 13." I started this story a few years ago, stalled out, started again recently, then realized the 75__th__ anniversary of D-Day was at hand, and perhaps I could get this finished for it. I discovered, thanks to Snooky, that there was going to be a D-Day challenge, and that provided extra incentive. Although this story contains references to my earlier two stories in this loose arc, you don't absolutely need to have read them. The conclusion of this story will make more sense if you have, however, especially if you've read "Swapping Generals." Do be warned that the first chapters run long._

_I have loved _Hogan's Heroes_ since the 1970s, but none of its characters are mine; they were created by Bernard Fein and Albert S. Ruddy. And though I borrow some of the dialogue written by __Richard M. Powell__ in his memorable episode "D-Day at Stalag 13" in my later chapters, I acknowledge the ownership of the creators and writer and that of Bing Crosby Productions and intend no copyright infringement. At no point will I or others profit monetarily on this story._

ooOoo

**Chapter 1**

_Night, June 1, 1944_

Hogan leaned against the wood post next to the radio table, using the post to take some of the weight off his feet and allow aching muscles to relax. He felt beat in just about all senses of the word.

_You chose this_, he reminded himself grimly. _You chose it TWICE_. First when he had established the operation all those months ago, and then again last month when the Allied High Command had given him a chance—hell, had _ordered_ him—to go home.

He could have been home right now if he had obeyed that order. His mind strayed briefly to his parents, the letter he had gotten from them two weeks ago cheerfully assuring him, as all their letters did, that all was well with his family. He hoped it was true. He worried that they wouldn't tell him if it wasn't.

But obeying that order would have meant leaving Crittendon in charge of the operation. Through his half-closed eyes, Hogan glanced down at Kinch, sitting on his stool, headset on, gaze distant, listening intently for the expected signal from London.

_No_, Hogan told himself firmly. _Absolutely not. The operation would be blown and everyone would probably all be dead by now. You made the right decision_. The English idiot hadn't even managed to stay in command successfully for 24 hours before he'd been caught trying to sneak back into Stalag 13 from the wrong side of camp. They had just been lucky that Klink had made the obvious assumption that Crittendon had actually been trying to escape from camp, not re-enter it.

Hogan shifted his weight again, hoping he wasn't testing the strength of the supporting beam too much by leaning against it. He should probably find a seat on one of the wood storage boxes that held essential supplies instead.

The problem was that he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back on his feet if he sat down.

_All you've gotta do is last through whatever message London has decided is so important that you have to be down here to take it in person_, he told himself. Surely it would be coming through any moment now. Then he could go up to his quarters and lie down. And finally sleep.

He hoped.

His movement attracted Kinch's attention. Hogan saw the sergeant's glance skitter towards him, his brows wrinkled slightly, but Kinch didn't raise his eyes far enough upwards to meet Hogan's own. Hogan sighed inwardly, from irritation born of regret and guilt mixed with the dregs of anger. Relations between the two of them had been badly strained for the past day, with plenty of fault to go around on both sides.

ooOoo

_24 hours earlier…_

"Ready to go?" Hogan asked Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau. Dressed in their black camouflage, they were standing around the radio table where Kinch was sitting on his stool in his regular uniform.

"Why yes, sir. It's a nice night for an evening stroll by a river," Newkirk answered, smiling. "As I remember from last time, there are very good views of the Krummenbach from the supports underneath its bridge."

"And I've made some of my best bombs ever this time," Carter agreed fervently, his hand caressing the four packs that held the charges, timers, and detonator wires they would need.

"The ones you used last time worked pretty well." Kinch spoke almost absently, looking down at notes on the table.

"You are smart, _colonel_, to wait until _le Bosche_ finished rebuilding it before we blow it up again," LeBeau said, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Hogan shrugged. "Letting them use maximum resources and effort without getting anything out of them is just practical strategy." He glanced down at his watch, then over at Kinch. "London'll be in contact at 2415; we should be working on the bridge by then. If everything goes on schedule, we'll all be back by 0300."

Kinch nodded but didn't look up from his notes. Hogan knew, of course, that Kinch was already fully aware of the night's schedule. Highlighting the time conflict just eased the niggling guilt in his own mind that Kinch wasn't coming with them on this mission as originally planned.

It didn't help much that Kinch himself had seen the necessity for it as soon as Hogan had. The moment Hogan had read aloud the information on troop movements that Newkirk had deftly lifted that afternoon from the gun belt of their unwitting courier, Schultz, planted on him earlier that day by one of their informants in town, they had both known they would have to use the next contact window that night to send the information on to London. And that meant that Kinch wouldn't be with them on tonight's mission: the time conflict was too direct. Hogan had glanced up in time to see Kinch sigh, his shoulders slumping. But to his credit, Kinch hadn't said anything beyond offering to get the information put into proper code right away for transmission that night, keeping his disappointment to himself.

Hogan regretted the necessity of leaving him behind tonight, partly because this was the kind of mission that Kinch was particularly useful for, given his height, reach, and strength, but also because Kinch got fewer chances than the others to leave camp. Given that this mission required no contact with Germans, it was a perfect one for Kinch to contribute to. But the contact with London conflicted with the time for the mission to the bridge, and they both knew that the radio message had priority.

"Time to move out," Hogan said, and the four of them began shouldering the packs. Hogan paused by Kinch's side before following the others down the tunnel. "Mind the store for me till I get back," he said quietly, patting Kinch on the back.

"Sure thing, Colonel," Kinch answered. But his voice was distant and again he didn't look up.

And yet, as Hogan reached the entrance to the passageway to the tunnel exit, he heard a soft "Good luck, sir." Glancing back, he saw Kinch glance at him briefly before the radioman dropped his gaze back down.

"Thanks," Hogan responded then headed down the tunnel, warmed by Kinch's gesture.

ooOoo

Three hours later as he dashed through the woods, closely followed by Newkirk, Hogan wondering if this was the night his luck would run out, despite Kinch's good wishes for them.

The group had been successful in reaching the bridge undetected and had accomplished the exacting task of laying the charges and timers to Carter's specifications without being discovered. By design the bombs wouldn't go off until 0630, during roll call: whenever possible, Hogan liked to be in camp and within reach of a potential alibi. With the explosives laid, they began heading back toward camp, a process that went faster than the trip out, now that they had left most of the heavy explosive material in their packs behind, tucked and fastened to the bridge pillars.

Despite cutting through the woods for cover, they still had to cross roads in two places. On the first crossing, Hogan paused in the shadows of the trees, listening carefully and doing his best to look down a road he could only dimly see in the starlight, now that the slim moon had set. Deciding it was safe, he gave the signal to his men to move out across the road—only to have a patrol with flashlights come around the bend in the road at just that moment. The beams lit the team enough despite their black camouflage gear that the soldiers spotted their movement, as their shouts all too clearly indicated.

Fortunately, the Germans were still some distance away.

Unfortunately, they had dogs.

"Run!" Hogan ordered. They all four charged into the woods in the general direction of camp, doing their best to stay on the barely visible path. The dogs barking behind them made clear that they were being pursued. Hogan knew they had to shake off the patrol tracking them: these weren't the camp dogs, who would respond to LeBeau's overtures and commands. As the four of them came to a fork in the path, he said, "Carter, LeBeau, peel off and head for camp; Newkirk and I will distract the patrol."

Carter and LeBeau obeyed him, heading on the more direct path to camp. He and Newkirk took a very short breather: they were going to need it for the upcoming dash when they would be the fresher scent that the dogs should follow. After a moment the two of them took off, working their way through the trees to provide sound as a signal as well as scent. Shouts from the patrol indicated that had worked—maybe too well. Hogan led the run at a heading that took them back across their previous trail, and then looped around to cross it again. It was a risky strategy, but there was a good chance that the crisscrossed trails would confuse the dogs. Finally, they headed at full tilt to the Krummenbach, the same river that their target bridge crossed further upstream, pausing only to slip silently into the water to shake off the dogs' pursuit of their scent.

Hogan was trying to stay near the bank, where the water was shallower, when he heard an "Ooof!" followed by a splash behind him. Turning, he saw Newkirk pushing himself up out of the water and back to his feet. "All right?" he whispered.

"Yes," came the quiet reply—except that as Newkirk stepped toward him he abruptly stopped and cursed softly.

"What?" Hogan asked, sharply.

"I've twisted me ankle, or something," Newkirk muttered.

Hogan reached out and grabbed Newkirk, slipping his arm around his back. It was awkward, given the packs on their backs, but at least both packs were mostly empty and fairly flat now the supplies had been used at the bridge. "Lean on me; we'll get to the middle of the river and float down for a way. That'll be quieter anyway," he whispered.

A few steps took them into deeper water where Newkirk let go, able to use his buoyancy in the water to manage his weight with his injury. Hogan held his pistol up to keep it from getting wet and followed Newkirk into water that was almost chest high, but they were careful to keep out of the stronger part of the current. They listened carefully as they moved downstream: the dogs were still barking in the distance, but the sound gradually receded.

After about five minutes Hogan pushed toward the bank, and the two of them sheltered under an overhanging tree for another five minutes. Finally Hogan judged it safe to come out of the water. They had come a good distance downstream away from the searchers, but the river was bending the wrong direction and he didn't want to take them further out of their way back to Stalag 13. Both of them were shivering: although the night had been comfortable in their sweaters and jackets earlier, they were now thoroughly chilled by the river. Hogan helped Newkirk onto the bank and then checked his ankle.

"I don't think it's broken," Newkirk gasped softly as Hogan's fingers probed the sore place, "just strained some when I stepped on a rock that tilted. Sorry, sir. But I think I can put some weight on it."

Hogan nodded his agreement: if were the joint broken, the Englishman would probably be in much worse pain than he seemed to be. But the injury was still going to slow their progress homeward considerably.

There was nothing to do but get on with it, though.

He tucked away his pistol in its holster, where he could still get to it with his right hand, then slung Newkirk's arm over his shoulder and put his left arm around the corporal's back to help brace him, and the two of them started forwards, Newkirk leaning heavily on Hogan to manage the hike. They went slowly, Hogan listening carefully for any sound of pursuit. Walking at least warmed them up some, and eventually they were no longer dripping, even if still wet to their skin. It took them well over twice as long as it should have to reach camp, especially since as they got nearer they twice had to hide to dodge patrols. As the hour grew later and later, Hogan was beginning to wonder if they would lose the cover of darkness, or even make it back in time for roll call.

Finally they reached the entrance to the tunnel, with less than thirty minutes before roll call to spare, and Hogan sighed in relief, knowing that shelter was only a few yards away. He was more than ready to be back in the relative safety of camp, and the idea of a dry uniform had never seemed so attractive. He helped Newkirk negotiate getting into the stump, then he dove for cover behind it as the searchlight passed close by, dangerous even in the twilight of early morning. He climbed in himself and down the ladder to the tunnel floor where Newkirk waited for him in the darkness. Hogan once again pulled Newkirk's arm over his shoulder and they proceeded toward the distant light of the main radio room that lay beneath Barracks 2.

As they entered the main room, LeBeau and Carter, both still in camouflage blacks, looked up, LeBeau calling out "Newkirk!" in apprehension simultaneously with Carter's relieved "Colonel!" Both rushed forward and eased Newkirk from Hogan's grip and onto one of the wood boxes that they usually used as a seat. Newkirk gave a little sigh of relief.

"Were you shot? Are you bleeding?" LeBeau asked anxiously. "You are both soaked!"

"We didn't get hit. We used the Krummenbach to throw the dogs off our scent, then Newkirk turned his ankle on a rock and we wound up taking a swim," Hogan answered wearily. "Let's get him upstairs and back into uniform up there, so he's there when Schultz comes in for roll call. Newkirk, you can report in sick—you fell out of your bunk, all right? We'll get Wilson to take a look at you after roll call. You guys need to change too." He looked around. "Where's Kinch?" he asked, stretching his shoulders as he removed the backpack.

LeBeau and Carter traded an uneasy look that got Hogan's attention immediately. "Where is he?" he demanded sharply.

"You were so late—we were all worried," LeBeau explained. "Kinch went to look for you, about twenty minutes ago. You—you didn't see him?"

"No, we didn't see him!" Hogan snapped. "We don't have time for this! We have to fall out for roll call in—" he looked at his watch "—barely twenty minutes." He huffed in exasperation. "Both of you, get changed, pronto, then get Newkirk upstairs and into his nightshirt—_before_ Schultz comes in!"

"_Oui, Colonel_," LeBeau answered, heading obediently for the alcove they kept their gear in.

Carter followed him but apparently couldn't resist taking the time to ask, "What're you going to do, Colonel?"

"I'll change, then go wait for Kinch if he's not back by then. I'll be up before Schultz gets here, one way or another. Now get moving!"

In a little less than five minutes, Carter and LeBeau were back in uniform and assisting Newkirk to climb the ladder with his one good leg. Hogan had skinned out of his wet black camouflage and yanked on his uniform without trying to dry off, a minor inconvenience that had the effect of further irritating him. He looked at his watch and swore silently. They had about ten minutes. If Kinch didn't make it back in the next seven, Hogan was going to have to go up above and deal with whatever fallout came from having a missing man at roll call. And Kinchloe wasn't someone that Schultz was likely to overlook.

He headed down the emergency tunnel, fuming, debating whether to climb the ladder and crack open the entrance to see if there was any sign of his missing man. He was _not_ going to go back outside the fence to look for Kinch: having both of them out there was just inviting further trouble. There wasn't time anyway.

As he approached the ladder, his eyes readjusting to the darkness, he heard rather than saw a man climbing down from above, accompanied by a whiff of fresher air as the tree stump entrance was pulled closed. "Kinch," he said, as soon as he'd reached the tunnel floor. He didn't make it a question.

Kinchloe jumped slightly. "Colonel?"

Hogan could hear the relief in the sergeant's voice, but he only answered, "This way." Kinchloe followed him down the tunnel back towards the radio room. As the first wave of relief ebbed, Hogan felt a rising tide of fury within him. He reined in his temper only long enough for them to get far enough from the tunnel entrance that he could be absolutely sure no sound would leak to the outside. Then he rounded on his radio man so abruptly that Kinch nearly plowed into him.

"What were you doing out there?"

He could see Kinch's head snap back in surprise at his tone, eyes widening then narrowing as he searched his commanding officer's face in the dim light. "Looking for you—sir. You were more than two hours overdue."

"Carter and LeBeau must have explained we would be late and why. I didn't expect to find a man missing when I finally got back here—especially not the one I left in charge! You don't walk out on that responsibility, Sergeant." Hogan put both fists on his hips, glaring at the slightly taller man.

Kinch shifted his weight a little, drawing himself up to his full height. "I didn't, Sir," he answered, his voice level and formal. "I thought you might need help—"

"I left you in charge. When we got back I expected to find you at your post. Instead you were outside the fence, with less than half an hour to roll call!"

"Looking for _you_, because you were _over_ _two hours_ _late!_ With roll call coming! And I made sure that I got back in time—"

"Enough, Sergeant!" Hogan cut him off. "We don't have time for this. Get up to the barracks, now! Move it!"

Kinch glared back, then pushed past him, stopping at the radio just long enough to blow out the oil lamp before he mounted the ladder, followed by Hogan. After stepping into the barracks, Hogan pounded on the hidden spring that lowered the bunk into place, hiding the tunnel entrance.

Turning, he saw that Newkirk, his nightshirt covering his trousers, was on Carter's bunk, biting his lip as LeBeau worked off the shoe as gently as he could. "You should have been wearing boots—that would have kept your ankle straight," the Frenchman scolded gently as he got the shoe off and pulled off the wet trousers, leaving his friend dressed for bed.

"Not flexible enough for climbing on bridge struts and too heavy for running through the woods to avoid dogs," Newkirk grunted as LeBeau began to towel off his wet legs and feet. He glanced up as Kinch approached him and grinned. "How about you run through the woods and I'll send the radio message next time, eh Kinch?"

"Deal," Kinch answered tersely, but put his hand on the Englishman's shoulder and squeezed. "You gonna be all right?"

"Oh sure. I'm going to skip out of standing in formation the next few days, and you'll all be envying me, lying at my ease here in my cozy bunk. Or more likely, Andrew's cozy bunk down here." Newkirk smiled and patted the blanket he was sitting on, just as Schultz came through the door.

"Uuup, uup! Everyone up, up, up! Rrrooolll call!" He stopped and looked at them in surprise. "You are all already up!" He frowned. "Have you been up to monkey business?"

Hogan pushed forward. "We've been worrying over Newkirk, Schultz. He took an unexpected trip off his bunk last night and landed wrong—I've been telling Klink we need to get rid of these dangerous double-decker bunks and redecorate with all twin beds."

"Jolly joker," Schultz sniffed at the sarcasm, but peered at Newkirk's ankle. "How bad is it? Ach, it looks swollen!"

"He needs the medic. Can we get Sergeant Wilson over here before roll call?" LeBeau asked.

"_Ja_, I will go fetch him," Schultz promised.

"Thanks, Schultzie," Newkirk said gratefully.

"Everyone else, get ready for roll call!" Schultz reminded them, getting a chorus of assurances that they would. No one wanted him to change his mind on the medic.

Hogan retired to his office. Standing over his sink, he washed his face well, trying somehow to scrub out the weariness left by the night's exertions. The stubble of his unshaven face was rough on his hands—he generally had trouble with a five o'clock shadow at the best of times and always needed a shave in the morning. He debated trying to shave now, but there really wasn't enough time, and there certainly wasn't any hot water. Given his fairly heavy beard, he always used hot water to shave. He knew, though, that he was inviting criticism from Klink if he went out for roll call without a clean chin. A fast dry shave wasn't an option, though, given the state of the blade in his razor.

Another call from Schultz filtered through the closed door, ending his internal debate, and he dried his face quickly with the worn scrap of fabric that served as his towel before stepping back into the main room of the hut. Sergeant Wilson had arrived and was seating himself on the bunk next to Newkirk.

"He can examine Newkirk while the rest of you are outside to be counted," Schultz said firmly, drowning out LeBeau's objections that Schultz knew he was there and he should stay behind and help Wilson. "Everybody out, out, out! Rrrroooollll caaallll! _Nein!_ You must _all_ be outside for the count! _Raus! Raus!_" He flapped his hands at LeBeau, herding the protesting Frenchman out.

Hogan followed the others out, hoping that for once Klink would be on time and not keep them waiting for ages—and that the Kommandant wouldn't pontificate over whatever supposed German victory he had heard about on the radio propaganda last night. Brushing past Kinch, who was standing in his usual place in the back row, Hogan took his own customary spot just in front of him without giving him a glance.

As usual with Klink, however, Hogan's hope for a short roll call was doomed. They waited during the count of their own barracks, and while that was tallied with all the other barracks counts, and then waited some more, LeBeau fuming not-so-silently in a constant stream of impatient French, despite Carter's and Chapman's occasional attempts to pacify him. By the time Klink finally emerged nearly thirty minutes later, stalking down the steps of the Kommandantur to the center of the compound to receive Schultz's report that all prisoners were accounted for, it was nearly 0630.

"All accounted for—not present?" was Klink's sharp rejoinder to Schultz.

"_Ja, Herr Kommandant_. The Englander, Newkirk, has hurt his ankle and is being tended by the prisoners' medic."

"Hmph. Very well. You may—"

Klink's comment was cut off by the boom of a distant explosion.

"Right on time." Carter's satisfied murmur was barely perceptible to Hogan.

"What was that?" Schultz's bemused question was audible to everyone as the big sergeant turned to look in the direction of the sound.

"No doubt some kind of artillery practice—or perhaps an unexploded bomb from an earlier raid," Klink answered dismissively. "Yet another example of shoddy manufacture from your American factories no doubt, Hogan." He gazed disapprovingly at his senior POW officer.

"Sounds to me like it eventually did whatever job it was supposed to do—if it was ours in the first place," Hogan answered with a shrug.

"Hmph!" Klink launched into a long panegyric on the recent glories of the Reich troops on the eastern front, and Hogan folded his hands in pockets, covertly studying the sky and trying not to listen. He was too tired for satirical repartee this morning and had no wish to prolong Klink's speech.

Finally Klink wound down and spoke the most welcome word of the day so far: "Disssmisssed!" Unfortunately, he immediately followed it with, "Colonel Hogan! A word with you."

Hogan sighed inwardly, knowing what was coming, but he strolled over to Klink. He could hear his men behind him, LeBeau apparently bolting back into the barracks given that Carter and Chapman were calling after him, promising to bring back breakfast for both him and Newkirk from the mess hall.

Klink had adopted the pedantic look of a headmaster about to take an erring student to task, an attitude that automatically raised Hogan's hackles. "Colonel Hogan," he began officiously, "in the German army it is customary for officers to set a good example for their men. I know you Americans pride yourselves on your informality, but really, Colonel, how can you fall out for roll call with such a slovenly appearance? Unshaven, your uniform untidy. . ."

"Because in the American army an officer's first duty is to look after the welfare of his men," Hogan answered caustically. "I was more concerned about Newkirk's injury than the state of my whiskers."

"And is his injury so serious?"

"I wouldn't know yet—I haven't had a chance to hear our medic's report," Hogan snapped.

"What happened to him?"

"He fell out of his bunk and landed wrong."

"'Fell out of his bunk,'" Klink quoted, his face pinched tightly with skepticism as he drew himself up and back from Hogan slightly.

"Sure, forgot he was in the top bunk and rolled out to answer nature's call—you know how it is when you're still mostly asleep. I keep telling you, Kommandant, that we need to get rid of these dangerous double-decker bunks and redecorate with all twin beds. You know, Simmons Beautyrest mattresses would be best—if they're good enough for Eleanor Roosevelt, I say they're good enough for my men."

Klink waved his hand dismissively. "That is not the point. Colonel, _all_ your men need to show up to formation shaved. _You_ in particular."

"Fine." Hogan crossed his arms in front of him. "How about you move roll call thirty minutes later, and put in an extra sink—then we can all manage that. _You_ don't get out here any earlier than that. What are you doing with all that time? Shaving?"

"_You_ have a sink in your quarters, Colonel. How about we move the call for all of you to get up to thirty minutes earlier instead?" Klink responded, eyes narrowed.

Hogan glared back—that was the last thing he needed. "I'll speak to the men. And I'll make sure I'm shaved. Happy now, Kommandant?"

"Deliriously," Klink answered dryly. "Dismissed, Hogan." He saluted and stalked off, hardly noting Hogan's irreverently sloppy salute back.

Hogan turned and headed back toward Barracks 2. He nearly ran into Wilson at the doorway, who was on his way out.

"How's Newkirk?" he asked.

"He'll be fine, Colonel. He's got a mild sprain, some swelling but not too bad. He said you two were in a river?"

Hogan glanced around in alarm, noting with relief there were no guards in earshot.

Wilson looked guilty. "Sorry, sir," he muttered. "Anyway, that probably helped, cold water and keeping his weight off it as much as he could just after the injury." He kept his voice low.

"So he just needs to keep off it now?" Hogan answered.

"Yes sir. I've got it wrapped, and if he stays mostly off it for a few days he should be all right for light work if he's needed. No running around for at least a couple of weeks, though—maybe longer."

"Got it," Hogan nodded.

"If you'll pardon me, sir, you look like you need breakfast and a nap," Wilson recommended with gentle candor.

"Yeah, that's in the plan." Hogan managed a smile and clapped Wilson on the shoulder, then he headed inside. Annoyingly, Klink was right: though Hogan felt genuinely hungry, he needed to shave before he appeared in the mess hall in front of all his men. He glanced to his left once inside the hut. LeBeau was perched on the bench by the table; Newkirk was sitting up in the lower bunk just across from him, leaning back against the post. There was no sign of Kinch.

"_Colonel_, I put water on to heat: there should be enough for you to shave with in a moment. I'll bring it in to your office if you like, sir," LeBeau suggested, glancing up at him.

"Thanks, LeBeau. That would be great. You doing all right, Newkirk?"

"Doc says I'll be right as rain in just a tic, sir," Newkirk answered brightly. "I'm going to have a kip, and after that maybe I'll be ready to dance tonight."

"No dancing for you till Wilson says so," Hogan warned, but he smiled as a reward for Newkirk's cheerful demeanor before crossing the room to his office. He closed the door behind him, removed his hat and hung it on its usual peg, then leaned on his desk. He took a deep breath, trying to let go of all the tension accumulated from the mission, the nearly disastrous return trip, and the conflicts with Kinch and Klink. He was going to shave, eat, and sleep, in that order, and then he was going to have a talk with Kinch, when they were both less tired and more rational and could sort through the events of the night and come up with a reasonable set of protocols for the future.

A tap at the door signaled LeBeau, with a kettle of water in one hand and a tin plate in the other, with a small hunk of black bread with butter scraped across it.

"Here you are, _Colonel_: hot water for your face to ensure a smooth shave, and a delicious breakfast pastry for your refreshment. I thought you would not want coffee this morning."

Hogan smiled in spite of his mood. "You're right about that," he admitted. "Where'd the breakfast come from?"

"André brought it for Newkirk and me, but this is my share. I am about to go over to the mess hall and get my own," LeBeau replied, pouring the water into Hogan's shaving bowl. "You can shave and eat, and go straight to bed, sir."

"Thanks, LeBeau, I'll do just that," Hogan replied, grateful for the Frenchman's tactful concern and service.

Ten minutes later, clean shaven and . . . well, not full, but at least no longer truly hungry, Hogan pulled off his jacket and climbed up into his bunk. He wasn't going to undress for a nap, especially since there was no telling if he might be needed in camp, but he was hoping to sleep till early afternoon, for at least four to six hours. That would make all the difference, he thought, yawning as he stretched himself out on his bunk, then shifted to his side, using his right arm to pillow his head, the wall comfortingly behind him as he drifted off.

ooOoo

_Author's note: Eleanor Roosevelt did in fact promote the Simmons Beautyrest mattress from 1927 through the early 1930s, in both print advertising and on her radio show._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Night, June 1, 1944_

In the cool air of the tunnel, Hogan stretched slightly, rolling his head around to relieve the tight muscles in his neck. He glanced at his watch. If only London would call just a tad early. Going to sleep this morning had felt like heaven; unfortunately it hadn't lasted long. Just one of the reasons he was so tired. . . .

ooOoo

_Earlier that morning…_

Hogan woke, disoriented, to urgent knocking at this door. "Come in," he called out groggily, trying to shake sleep from himself as he glanced at his watch. Not even ninety minutes since he'd crawled into bed. What was so important?

Davis came through the doorway as Hogan pushed himself up to a sitting position, fighting the overwhelming desire to lie back down and go back to sleep. "Colonel, sir, Major Hochstetter just came into camp, with an S.S. general. They're going into the Kommandant's office."

_That_ news got Hogan's attention—he could virtually feel the adrenaline blast into his system. He slipped down from the top bunk, heading toward his desk. As he pulled the coffeepot out, LeBeau and Carter, supporting a hopping Newkirk, came through the doorway. At some point, Newkirk had gotten back into uniform.

Hogan frowned at him. "Wilson ordered you to stay in bed."

"Right, sir, that's right where I'll be," Newkirk answered with his customary insouciant smile as he sank down onto Hogan's lower bunk, ostentatiously raising his injured ankle onto it.

"Where's Kinch?" was Hogan's next question as he pieced the coffeepot together into its hidden identity as a receiver and speaker for the disguised microphone in Klink's office.

"Down in the tunnel—Barnes was calling him," Davis answered. "Oh, here he is," he added as Kinch pushed through the door with Barnes and Chapman to stand behind Carter and LeBeau and Davis.

The speaker crackled to life as Hogan plugged it in. "Quiet, everyone," he ordered.

"General Graf, this is Colonel Klink, Kommandant of this camp," came Hochstetter's gruff voice, made rather tinny by the small speaker.

"General Graf, what a pleasure to meet you—"

"We want to take Hogan into town for interrogation at Gestapo headquarter," Hochstetter cut across Klink's pleasantries.

Hogan stiffened, hearing his men's audible intakes of breath. This was big trouble.

"Gestapo headquarters in town? Er, Major, surely you know that I cannot release Colonel Hogan from the Luftwaffe's custody without a specific charge or direct orders from my superior officer," Klink prevaricated.

_Attaboy, Klink_, Hogan thought.

"That is why I have brought _General _Graf," Hochstetter replied smugly. "He is your superior."

"Begging the General's pardon, and yours, Major . . . but he is not—not in that sense. While my relations with the Gestapo have always been most cordial, I am under orders from General Burkhalter. So it is his permission you will have to have, or I will be disobeying him."

Hogan could practically hear Klink's careful footsteps on the tightrope walk between the threat standing right in front of him and the threat that Burkhalter represented.

"May I inquire as to why you wish to . . . question Colonel Hogan?" Klink added in a carefully neutral tone.

"He is responsible for blowing up the Krummenbach Bridge this morning!"

"That is quite impossible," Klink denied stiffly. "Colonel Hogan was at roll call at 0600 and seen in his barracks by the guard before that." His voice shifted to fawning. "General Graf, perhaps the Major has not told you, but there has never been an escape from Stalag 13—not one!"

"He did mention it, yes, as well as predicted that you would mention that fact in the conversation within the first five minutes we were here. I see he was correct about that." Graf's voice was winter cold.

"A patrol saw the saboteurs fleeing southwards and traced them with dogs towards this camp," Hochstetter added.

"My guards reported no encounters with another patrol," Klink countered, his voice cautious.

"They lost the scent," Hochstetter admitted with obvious reluctance, "but they were headed in this direction," he added insistently.

"Major, while no one can admire the Gestapo's thoroughness more than myself, I cannot see that you have any evidence against Colonel Hogan that would warrant removing him from Luftwaffe custody. You can, of course, ask General Burkhalter—"

"We do not have time for such niceties," Hochstetter snarled. "We _will_ question him—"

"Here, in my office," Klink suggested. "At least until General Burkhalter can be reached. I will have my secretary put a call through to the general, and have my sergeant bring Colonel Hogan here. General Graf, I am sure you understand—you would not wish one of the officers under _your_ command to go against your standing orders."

A moment of silence passed, then Graf answered, "Very well. Have him brought here. We shall see what this American colonel of yours is made of, Hochstetter."

Klink apparently picked up the phone, for the next thing everyone heard was him giving Hilda the orders to track down Burkhalter and have Schultz fetch Hogan.

Hogan unplugged the coffee pot, very much aware of the silence in the small room, despite the seven other men in it. Mechanically he put the speaker away, then started issuing orders. "LeBeau, Carter, help Newkirk back to his bunk: he's got to be in place when Schultz gets here. Kinch, use the coffeepot to listen in once I'm over there. I don't think this is anything serious—just Hochstetter taking a chance to rattle my cage. They don't really have anything on us. He's just hoping to shake something loose. So we'll sit tight for the moment. If it is serious, I'll give the code word and you'll get everyone out. Barnes, Davis, Chapman—you'll head up outside security while Kinch is using the coffeepot. Coordinate with Carter and LeBeau inside as necessary."

"But we should be in here—" LeBeau started.

"I don't need a big audience for this!" Hogan snapped. "They aren't going to hurt me, just question me. One man listening in is plenty. Now get Newkirk out to his bunk like I ordered."

Carter and Chapman helped Newkirk up off the bunk and out the door. The others filed out behind them, LeBeau lagging behind. Kinch stood near the window, looking down at the floor, his face troubled, as Hogan stood up and grabbed his hat off the hook of his locker.

"Like I said," Hogan added, his voice lower, "given what we've heard, this shouldn't be anything serious. But I need someone listening in, in case I'm wrong about that. With any luck, Klink will reach Burkhalter quickly and he'll put an end to this."

"You think Burkhalter will take your part against the Gestapo, sir." Kinch's diffident comment was not quite a question.

Hogan shrugged. "He doesn't like the Gestapo, and he won't want them taking custody of me away from the Luftwaffe—there's too much rivalry between them over that. So no, he probably won't. So just listen carefully—and keep the others out of it."

A knock at the office door put an end put an end to their conversation. Hogan put his hat on his head and opened it.

"Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant has ordered that you come to his office. Major Hochstetter is there, and a general of the S.S!" Schultz informed him dolefully. "I must take you over there."

"Yeah, Schultz. Kinch, mind the store." Hogan headed though the hut and out the door.

ooOoo

Hilda glanced up, worry in her eyes, as Hogan and Schultz came through the door. Given the presence of two of Hochstetter's goons in the room, she didn't try to speak to him, and he gave her only the smallest of nods with a tiny quirk of a smile. Schultz knocked on the Kommandant's door and, hearing the command to enter, bowed Colonel Hogan through.

Hogan gave Klink a somewhat more formal salute than usual but kept his tone light as he greeted him. "Good morning, Kommandant. I hadn't realized we had guests. Major Hochstetter, what a pleasure to see you on this bright cheerful spring morning." He swept his glance over Hochstetter quickly, letting it pause and rest on Graf, who turned out to be a tall, trim man of aristocratic bearing, with a high forehead and a strong nose, his clipped hair originally gold blond but now largely mixed with snowy white. He certainly seemed to fit Hitler's Aryan ideal, sitting at his ease in the chair beside Klink's desk and examining the prisoner standing in front of him with dispassionate attentiveness.

"General Graf, may I present Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer at Stalag 13," Klink introduced them formally.

Graf didn't move from his seat, and Hogan wasn't about to offer his hand to him. He settled for a nod, with a neutral "General," as his greeting, while the general's eyes rested coldly on him.

"Colonel Hogan, you acknowledge my superior rank, yet you have not saluted and are standing at ease without permission," Graf said, his gaze raking over Hogan.

Hogan was about to make a wisecrack about that when Klink jumped in ahead of him, obviously having anticipated Hogan's likely response. "I'm sure Colonel Hogan is perfectly aware of military protocol, General, and the importance of following it. It has simply been a long time since he was in the presence of a superior officer."

That was not true, of course, given Burkhalter's numerous visits—not to mention General Barton from his own side a couple of months back and Klink's own long seniority of rank over Hogan's—but Hogan caught Klink's slight emphasis on his rank and the point about protocol. If Klink had taken refuge in regulations as his means of keeping Hogan out of Gestapo clutches, Hogan had best play along.

"My apologies, General. I had thought this was a social call," he replied calmly, drawing himself into an at-attention stance and giving a formal salute. He didn't miss the look of relief that flickered across Klink's face.

Hochstetter stalked around him, clearly enjoying this turn of affairs. "It is a pleasure to see you paying proper respect for once, Colonel."

Hogan ignored him, pointedly staring over Hochstetter's head—not difficult, given the three-inch difference in their height. Besides, he knew that lording his height over Hochstetter drove the major slightly crazy.

Hochstetter's eyes narrowed and he came up close, thrusting his face towards Hogan's, his breath unpleasantly warm, moist, and sour on the colonel's face. "We know that you blew up the Krummenbach Bridge this morning."

Hogan said nothing.

"Are you not even doing to deny it?" Hochstetter looked like he couldn't believe his luck.

Hogan cut his glance over to General Graf, who tilted his head consideringly. "I give you permission to speak, Colonel," Graf said after a momentary pause.

"I was here at final headcount last night, in my barracks all night, as always, and present for roll call this morning," Hogan answered firmly. "Sergeant Schultz and Colonel Klink can attest to that. I certainly didn't have time or opportunity to blow up this bridge, wherever it is."

"You blew up the bridge, and you were nearly caught on the way back," Hochstetter insisted. "Nor is it the first sabotage in this area that you have been responsible for. This area has the highest rate of sabotage and underground activity in all of Germany, and _you_ are behind it, Hogan! I shall _wring_ that admission out of you!"

Hogan looked as bored as possible while maintaining his at-attention stance. "I already told you where I was last night, Major: in the only place I could be, in this escape-proof prisoner of war camp that I've been in for nearly two years now. That's the only answer there is to your question. Beyond this, it'll be just name, rank, and serial number."

"We shall see, Hogan. We shall see." Hochstetter walked around behind him, where Hogan couldn't see him. Hogan kept his eyes forward. "Let us start with where you got the explosives for the charges you set."

"Hogan, Robert E. Colonel, U.S. Air Corps, 0876707," Hogan replied, keeping his tone utterly indifferent.

And so it went. For hours. Hogan had initially gauged Graf as a bored officer looking for some entertainment from this interrogation, so he squashed his own natural tendency to smart off to Hochstetter. The more tedious the interrogation, the sooner Graf would be likely to shut it down for lack of sport.

That was a promising working theory at the beginning, and as the questioning proceeded Hogan became more and more convinced that Graf did not really believe Hochstetter's theory. Some comments that they exchanged suggested that Hochstetter had run into Graf in town after visiting the site of the sabotaged bridge, had run his pet theory by the general and coopted him into coming to Stalag 13 to use the muscle of his rank against both Klink and Hogan. However, Hogan gradually saw that Graf had a cold scientific turn of mind that apparently found pleasure in long-term observation and experimentation. For whatever reason, today his focus was watching Hochstetter and Hogan.

_Doesn't he have anything else to do, like a war to run?_ Hogan wondered bitterly. But he kept that comment to himself, contenting himself with occasionally throwing out name, rank, and serial number whenever Hochstetter absolutely demanded an answer. He knew how far he could push Klink; Graf was too much of an unknown to take risks with.

Lunch time arrived. Graf deliberated over taking lunch in Klink's quarters, as Klink invited both him and Hochstetter to, but ultimately chose to have lunch delivered to them in Klink's office instead, so as not to interrupt the questioning. It went without saying that Hogan was offered neither food nor a break from the interrogation.

At times, Hogan could almost have felt sorry for Klink, who seemed torn between his fear of both Graf and Hochstetter, his duty as Kommandant of the camp, and his apparent distaste for the whole tedious business that was keeping him from doing other work that desperately needed doing. But Klink was sitting at his desk, while Hogan had been standing for hours; the difference severely limited his feelings of sympathy.

By midafternoon Hogan's feet throbbed, his legs ached, his back hurt, his neck was stiff, and he had a raging headache from maintaining the unnatural stance at attention. A good officer never kept men in this position for more than a few minutes; after a long time it became agonizing. Hogan was in good physical shape, but this stance misused muscles in ways that they were unaccustomed to and that were unnatural. But each time Hogan momentarily broke position, Hochstetter was immediately in his face with threats to remove the interrogation to Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg. Fortunately, Klink strongly objected to that each time. Hogan wished Burkhalter would call and put a stop to the whole business.

The afternoon dragged on; Hilda was still having difficulty tracking down Burkhalter, as her occasional reports via phone to Klink indicated, though apparently not for lack of trying. It sounded to Hogan like she'd tried everywhere in Berlin but Hitler's bedroom. . . . Ugh. Hogan automatically shook his head slightly in distaste, but Hochstetter noticed and stepped in front of him again.

"You are having difficulty maintaining your position of respect, Hogan. Why not just admit that you blew up the bridge and we can be done with all this?" He ran the tip of his crop over Hogan's left cheek down to his chin. Hogan drew his head back in revulsion, and Hochstetter lightly poked the tip of the crop against his chest in reprimand.

Hogan refused to react again, angry with himself for having lost focus enough to give Hochstetter an excuse to needle him physically. Hochstetter put his hands behind his back, switching the crop against his boots as he regarded Hogan for a moment, and then went back to slowly pacing around Hogan and firing questions at him.

At the end of the afternoon Hilda called in from the office, getting Klink's permission to leave for the day. Schultz was ordered to take over the telephone hunt for General Burkhalter.

The time was drawing near 1900 hours when Klink finally asked, "General, Major, will you stay for dinner? I will need to arrange for dinner to be served in my quarters if you wish to do so." His tone was perfectly polite but completely unpressing. Clearly, the Kommandant felt no enthusiasm for the proposition. He had certainly waited as long as possible before offering the extra hospitality.

Graf abruptly stood up. "Major, this has been a waste of my time, and yours, in finding your saboteurs. You have no evidence beyond suspicion and wishful thinking, nothing that would impress your superiors in Berlin, much less me." He regarded Hogan coolly. "You are an interesting specimen as an American officer, Colonel Hogan—quite stubborn and tenacious. I will look forward to bringing you and your fellow officers to heel after we have won the war against you." Turning back to Hochstetter, he said, "You will accompany me back to town, Major. I intend to have better than prison camp swill for my dinner. My coat, Klink."

Rather than protesting the slur on his hospitality or calling for Schultz to perform this duty, Klink simply removed the general's coat from the coat rack and held it up for Graf to slide into. Graf nodded his thanks, clicked his heels together, and said in an indifferent tone, "Good night, Colonel Klink." He headed toward the door.

Hochstetter glowered first at Klink and then at Hogan. "I will prove what you are, Hogan, I swear I will someday."

"But not today, Major," Graf said from just outside the doorway. "Do not keep me waiting any longer." The warning was unmistakable and Hochstetter heeded it, slamming the door behind him as he followed the general into the outer office.

"At ease, Hogan," Klink said immediately, sinking back down into his desk chair as Hogan wearily relaxed his stance fully for the first time in hours, slumping forwards. They both heard the outer office door bang closed, then two thumps from the general's car that had been waiting for hours in front of the Kommandantur. Klink gestured over to the small door in the wall opposite his desk. "Please make use of the facility, Colonel Hogan. No doubt you need it." Wordlessly, Hogan crossed the office slowly, stiffly, shutting the door of the small bathroom behind him. After doing his business, he washed his hands with the bar of soap, the ridiculously flowery scent of chamomile hitting his nose as the hot water flowed over his hands. Then he splashed cooler water on his face, over his chin, cheeks, and forehead again and again, trying to wash all sensation of Hochstetter's foul breath off himself. Eventually he turned the hot tap off completely and switched to cupping his hands to catch the cold water, gulping it down to slake the thirst he had been feeling for hours. He wasn't about to ask Klink for water to drink—or anything else, either. Finally, he dried his face and hands, then squared his shoulders to go out and meet the Kommandant once again.

Klink was sitting hunched over his desk. He looked as pale and washed out as Hogan himself felt. He looked up at Hogan quickly, then back down. "I have ordered dinner for the two of us in my quarters, Colonel. You have missed the evening meal with the rest of the prisoners, so I hope you will join me."

Hogan was tempted to tell him to go to hell but reminded himself that Klink had probably saved him from treatment that would have been much worse than what he had just been through. Not to mention that going back to the barracks to be fussed over by his men, with LeBeau no doubt yapping in the lead, was not appealing either. He shook himself inwardly: that was unfair to the generous French corporal. He needed to not take out his foul mood on anyone else. Plus he was gnawingly hungry, having had only that one bit of bread in nearly twenty-four hours. What he wanted more than anything else at the moment was just to sit down. "Thank you, Kommandant," he said after a moment's pause, doing his best to keep his tone civil.

Klink rose and put on his hat, picking up his swagger stick. He automatically put it under his arm, but for once did so with very little swagger. Hogan followed him out the door to the outer office, where Schultz, sitting in Hilda's place, was saying, "_Ja_, General Burkhalter: is he there, _bitte_?" He looked up at the two officers questioningly.

"If you find the general there, put him through to my quarters," Klink said. "If not, you can give up the search. Leave word at the switchboard for any call from General Burkhalter this evening to be directed to my quarters. Then get yourself some dinner."

The big sergeant looked much relieved. _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant! Und danke!"_

Leaving Schultz behind, Klink and Hogan walked onto the porch. Hogan gritted his teeth as he bent his stiff legs on the steps, but he forced himself to keep pace with Klink as they rounded the building and entered the private quarters on the other side. Klink removed his hat once again and gestured to the sofa. "Sit down, Colonel. I will be right back."

Hogan sank onto the firm cushions, stifling a moan of relief, as Klink disappeared into his bedroom area. He tilted his head back, resting it against the hard wood that topped the antique sofa. As he stared at the ceiling, letting the exhaustion he felt sweep over him, he wished Klink had more comfortable furniture. A vague thought crossed his mind that it figured that Klink's furniture was as old fashioned and stiff as he usually was. For a moment, Hogan wondered if coming to Klink's quarters had been a bad idea.

Just then came a knock at the door. Klink, emerging from the bedroom, called "_Herein_" as Hogan forced himself to sit up.

Sergeant Brodbeck, the lanky German head cook for the officers' and guards' mess, entered the room, laden with baskets that no doubt contained the ingredients for their dinner. Unable to salute, he clicked his heels together and dipped his head. "_Herr Kommandant_, I will have your meal ready in just a few minutes. . . ."

Klink waved him toward the kitchen area. "As quickly as you can, Brodbeck, but do make sure the food is hot through."

Amid the noises from the kitchen that proclaimed that Brodbeck had begun his preparations, Klink poured two glasses of schnapps. He handed one to Hogan, who would have liked to have drunk it straight down but resisted the impulse. The alcohol would go straight to his head; given his fatigue, he needed to keep himself as clear as he could. So he said, "Thanks," and simply sipped at it. The strong dry drink burned down his throat. Klink stepped over to the stove, working the banked embers up to a fire by adding fresh coal. He seemed to be taking his time; Hogan was betting that Klink was no more up for conversation than he was himself.

Finally, Klink sat down in one of the chairs and heat began to penetrate the chill of the room. Hogan set the glass down on the coffee table and leaned back again. After sitting in silence a moment, Klink shifted position, apparently preparatory to speaking, when the phone rang.

Saved by the bell, Hogan thought gratefully.

Klink rose and answered the phone. "Ahh, General Burkhalter. Yes . . . yes, _Herr_ General, I have been trying to reach you for hours. You see, Major Hochstetter came to camp today with an S.S. general—General Graf. . . ."

Hogan ignored the summary of events; he'd lived it and didn't need to hear Klink's version. Klink continued to blather on, with a lot of pauses, apparently to assent to whatever Burkhalter was saying, as Hogan sat back, again leaning his head against the sofa back despite its discomfort, staring at the ceiling, his mind slowly blanking as the heat from the fire built up. The warmth felt good. . . .

"Colonel Hogan." Klink's voice was right over him, and Hogan opened his eyes, blinking, aware of a stiffness in his neck where the wood was digging in as he looked upwards at the Kommandant. Oh no . . . he had fallen _asleep?_ In front of _Klink?_ For how long?

"I'm sorry to wake you, but our dinner is ready." Klink sounded slightly embarrassed, but Hogan was sure that was nothing compared to what he himself was feeling over falling asleep in Klink's living room. Besides the general social gaucheness of doing so, he also felt a peculiar uneasiness in the idea of being unaware, insensible . . . _vulnerable_, in front of Klink. They were too often in conflict for him to want the Kommandant to have the psychological advantage of that kind of memory of him.

Hogan rose to his feet, stiff but trying to hide it, and moved toward the table. Brodbeck was serving them himself and brought out the food to the table he had apparently set while Hogan had slept, which meant he had to have been out for at least twenty minutes or so. Not reassuring at all—although at least he and Klink hadn't had to make conversation for that time, if a bright side was needed. They would have to now over dinner, though. Brodbeck had cooked a couple of bratwurst sausages apiece, plus sauerkraut, potatoes fried with onions, and bread with butter. Not exactly his favorites, Hogan thought, but they had cooked quickly and were hot and rich. Plus, it was far better fare than he would have gotten eating in the mess hall with his men, nor would he have to ask LeBeau to make dinner for him by breaking into the food reserves they used when hiding airmen down in the tunnel.

"_Guten Appetit_," Klink muttered as they picked up their silverware and spread their napkins on their laps. Conversation was desultory as they ate, neither one of them much in the mood to talk. Brodbeck brought out a small assortment of pre-baked cookies for dessert, offering coffee to accompany them, which both men refused.

_Guess we both have intentions for early bedtime_, Hogan thought, a small flicker of amusement briefly sputtering in his mind. The food finished, Hogan saw no need to stay longer.

"Thank you, Kommandant, for the meal." He couldn't bring himself to broaden the thanks to the events earlier in the day, although Klink probably deserved some for keeping him in camp. But he was too tied to the hours of unpleasant interrogation for Hogan to muster any deep feeling of gratitude at the moment. "I guess I'll be on my way now," he added.

"Yes, of course." Klink didn't seem any more eager than Hogan to prolong the social contact this evening. The Kommandant went to the door and called the guard on duty to accompany Hogan to Barracks 2. Hogan gave a brief salute as he left, wondering if Klink felt as much relief as he did once the door closed between them. As he trudged across the compound, Hogan couldn't help yawning between searchlights and hoping fervently that he could just head straight to bed once he got inside.

The moment he walked through the door, though, everyone in the barracks jumped to their feet and he found himself surrounded by a babbling crowd—just when he most wanted space and quiet. He held up his hands and raised his voice to shush them.

"All right, all right, pipe _down_, fellas!" As the noise died, he added, "I'm fine, just tired."

"I can fix you something to eat," LeBeau offered, right on cue.

Hogan checked the irritation he was feeling, knowing they all were acting out of concern. "No thanks, LeBeau—Klink fed me. Didn't you tell them that, Kinch?" he asked, looking around and abruptly realizing after the fact that Kinch was the only one missing out of the usual complement of men.

"He's down below," Newkirk said, gesturing vaguely toward the bunk that led to the tunnel with his left hand, while using the right to hold onto his own bunk for balance as he stood on his good leg. "Said he needed to go over the radio equipment before tonight's check-in with London."

"And he told us before he went down that you were eating with Klink and it'd be a while before you'd be back," Carter added in, ever helpful.

"Mine would be better than whatever the Bosche gave you!" LeBeau muttered defiantly.

"No doubt, but I had plenty, LeBeau. Thanks, though," Hogan answered automatically even as his mind was running on what Newkirk and Carter had said about Kinch, which suggested his radioman was using his job to avoid him. Fine, Hogan thought. He didn't want to hash out the near disaster from last night—or early this morning, depending on how you wanted to count it—with Kinch right now anyway. "Okay. I'm heading straight to bed. I'll see you all in the morning."

Silence abruptly fell, and his men traded uneasy looks. He inwardly sagged. It couldn't mean anything good. Crossing his arms and taking a tight grip on his temper, he asked, "All right, what's going on?"

"Er, Kinch said to remind you that London wants a report from you on last night's job at the bridge," Newkirk answered tentatively.

Hogan glanced at his watch. The regular check in was coming up in about 45 minutes. Not enough time to get a nap; too much time to kill easily. Of course. Perfect end to a perfect day.

"Okay," he sighed. "If I'm not out here in 35 minutes, somebody pound on my door and roust me out so I can get down there in time." At least he could count on their back-up to make sure he didn't miss the call.

He got a chorus of promises, enough to make him worry that he'd have all thirteen of them knocking, and headed to his office. Closing the door behind him and shutting out the noise and the others made him grateful, for the umpteenth time, that he had private quarters. He took off his hat and jacket and turned on the spigot of the sink to wash his face and hands once again. The scratchiness of his five o'clock shadow on his chin reminded him of the argument with Klink at morning roll call—it seemed a long time ago now. He decided to strip off down to his waist to sponge off: the chilly water would help keep him awake. He took his time washing: no point in hurrying.

Clean and back in uniform, he sat down on the high stool at his desk, not daring to try his lower bunk. Lying down was so tempting, but it would make it much harder to get back up in a few minutes. He'd stay up until he could go to bed for real. He rubbed his eyes, trying to stay awake. _Guess I should've had some of Klink's_ coffee, he thought. He'd be heading down below in a few minutes to make his report to London, but there wasn't much to think about for that. Target eliminated. Well, and a brief comment about how it would hobble the movement of troops, supplies, and munitions. He could probably have delegated the whole thing to Kinch—who had been up as long as Hogan himself had and no doubt needed to rest almost as much. But since London usually piggybacked instructions on what they wanted next with regular check-ins, he had to be down there himself. So they both had to stay up.

So Kinch was obviously avoiding him. Still steamed about their confrontation this morning, no doubt. Probably also embarrassed over what he'd had to listen to via the hidden mic during Hogan's interrogation. Hogan didn't want to think much about it either.

Hogan sighed. He _should_ think through the interrogation: figure out what he had learned from the questions Hochstetter was asking, and what he had learned by observing that cold bastard Graf that might be worth passing on to his handlers in London, who liked to keep tabs on German generals. Instead, his mind wandered to Klink. The Kommandant was easy enough for Hogan to manipulate most of the time: Hogan knew from experience which buttons to push. But Klink had shown a surprising amount of backbone today in defying Hochstetter's machinations and keeping Hogan in camp. Of course, Klink's main objective was always survival: this morning he had been weighing the immediate threat of Hochstetter and Graf against the looming threat of Burkhalter's wrath if he lost his star prisoner. Since Burkhalter could remove Klink from command, as Klink's CO he had won that contest—which had been to Hogan's advantage today.

Still, Klink had seemed to feel a good bit of distaste for the method of interrogation, and he had tried to make some kind of amends to Hogan once it was over. Why? His own way of making sure Hogan wouldn't try to get back at him? Or just a sense of human decency showing, which usually got hidden under the administrivia of running the camp and the general fear that any sane man felt while living in Nazi Germany—particularly if serving in the military.

Thinking through all this made him even more tired. His head drooped and he pulled it up sharply, then looked at his watch. Not quite fifteen minutes till check in. He sighed again, then decided he'd better get down below. At least Kinch would wake him up if he fell asleep down in the radio room.

He pushed himself to his feet and headed through the darkened main room to go down into the tunnel. All the men were already in their bunks, but he felt their eyes on him as he hit the hidden mechanism to open the tunnel entrance and then climbed down the ladder.

Kinch glanced up as Hogan plodded down the ladder, but he looked back down at the clipboard he was holding before he could meet the colonel's eyes. "Good evening, sir," he said expressionlessly.

Hogan held back a sigh. Even face to face, he just wasn't up to dealing with the fallout from their earlier confrontation right now. He'd do it in the morning.

"Evening, Kinch," he answered. "Equipment okay?"

"Yes, Colonel. Just waiting for contact. Should be in just a few more minutes."

"Okay," Hogan answered. He propped himself against the support beam and settled himself to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Night, June 1, 1944_

The minutes ticked by slowly. Hogan fought to keep himself awake, wondering what London might be wanting them for this time. Some other intelligence mission—or maybe sabotage? They were running short of local targets, though, and getting further afield was always difficult. Hogan knew the intelligence work they did probably had a greater effect on the war effort, although he knew his team members—especially Carter, of course—felt a greater sense of satisfaction in blowing up munitions that could be used against the Allies.

But it sometimes seemed like they had been doing this forever. He was so tired of the war—which had started for him, LeBeau, and Newkirk so much earlier than it had for Carter or Kinchloe. Four years now—almost exactly, come to think of it. The Dunkirk evacuation had been going on four years ago today: this was probably just about the anniversary of when LeBeau and Newkirk had been taken prisoner. And he had shipped over to London at about that time too.

Four years was a big chunk of any man's life. The real problem was that there was no end to the war in sight. Sure, some progress had been made—important progress. North Africa was won for the Allies, Sicily taken, Italy invaded and Mussolini out of power. The Russians had prevented the capture of Stalingrad and were slowly pushing the Germans back eastwards—all at horrendous costs. But the Italian campaign was being hard fought, and the Nazi grasp on most of western and eastern Europe was still strong and would remain so until the Allies invaded.

Surely an invasion would come this summer. The Allies just had to do it, either from the south via Italy, which would be the long hard way, or across the Channel from England, the obvious way. Without an Allied invasion of northern Europe, a western front to divide Nazi attention and resources from the eastern and southern fronts, the war would end in a stalemate, and Hogan just couldn't believe the Allies would let that happen. They had the full industrial might of the U.S. to harness—and yeah, getting material and troops across an ocean took a lot of time, work, and resources, not to mention the danger of U-boats patrolling the waters, but what the U.S. could offer compared to any other country in the war—well, there just was no comparison. Britain had showed it could hold out against the Nazis, especially with American support, but it was stretched thin and couldn't mount a continental invasion on its own. Hogan hadn't been home in four years, but everything he'd heard from all the prisoners he'd interviewed suggested that America had retargeted its energies into war material production. They could support an invasion, he was sure of it, and would no doubt play a leading role in the fight alongside the British and the various exiled continental forces that had escaped to Britain early in the war.

But it was already nearly June of this year: if it didn't come soon the Allies would lose the best weather for fighting. Soldiers in the field would need that weather to get enough of a foothold to dig in and move forward.

The battle was going to take a long time, whenever it got started.

Which meant he was going to be here in Stalag 13, with his men, working every angle they could, for the foreseeable future.

Hogan's chin touched his chest, and he jerked it up sharply. He glanced over at Kinch, but his radioman was bending to examine one of the dials on the radio and wasn't looking his direction. Fortunately.

Hogan crossed his arms in front of himself. London should be calling any time now—he just had to keep awake a little while longer. . . .

Just then Kinch came to alert, and Hogan heard the beeps that signified the incoming message. He could usually follow Morse code in his head, but tonight he just wasn't up to it as Kinch tapped out their report from last night, then listened for the reply. And it didn't matter, since Kinch would need to decrypt the incoming message into readable English anyway. He stood up and paced over to the table where Kinch was sitting, prepared to wait.

Except that after a moment of furious writing, Kinch looked up at him, brow wrinkled. "They want to talk to you direct, sir."

Hogan frowned. Voice messages were always riskier, with an increased chance of detection. Something must be up. Kinch handed him the hand mic and bent to twist the knobs. A very English voice suddenly boomed tinnily out of the speaker.

"Mama Bear to Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear."

"Papa Bear here," Hogan answered. He recognized the voice as one of their senior handlers. Newkirk had nicknamed him Posh.

"Prince Charming is having a ball at the castle. A fast pony will arrive tomorrow night, 2230."

Dumbfounded, Hogan and Kinch stared at each other. That meant an overnight trip to London and back again before roll call. Highly risky in terms of possibly being spotted and shot down for both legs of the trip, not to mention all the issues involved in getting out of camp and back undetected during the short summer night. Hogan had only done it once before, and that had been the first year he was in camp, setting up the operation, in late fall when the nights were longer.

Hogan ran calculations in his head. That plane would have to leave England before the onset of dark; in fact, given Daylight Savings Time and the nearness of the solstice, it would have been dark for only a short time when it got here to pick him up, barely long enough for him to make the rendezvous under the cover of darkness. Counting the time to fly to London, meet with "Prince Charming," the British general who was the senior officer in charge of Hogan's operation, and then fly back again, it was going to be a very tight fit in the time they had available. He would have to parachute in to save time on the return, and increase the pilot's chance of returning safely to England. Nor did Hogan dare get himself tossed in the cooler to pad the available time: if whatever London had for him was so hot that they had to tell him in person, then he had to be free to act when he got back.

"Understood," he answered back, looking at Kinch and shrugging. What else was there to say?

Actually, he could think of one thing. "Mama Bear, I'll need a dress to go to the ball."

The corners of Kinch's mouth turned up slightly at that. Hogan was mildly exasperated by Kinch's amusement at his CO's apparent vanity, but Kinch wasn't the one who would have to face an oh-so-proper English general in a flight uniform that decidedly showed the last two years of wear and tear, despite Newkirk's best tailoring efforts. Hogan wanted a Class A uniform just to feel like he was as professional as the officer he would be getting some kind of big orders from. Prince Charming wasn't an enemy, but he was their senior CO: if he wanted a meeting in person then he wanted something big from their unit, and Hogan felt he needed armor for the encounter.

"Agreed. Over and out."

"Over and out," Hogan answered, then set the mic down gently on the rough wood table. The whole conversation had taken less than thirty seconds, but he felt like he had gone down a rabbit hole and emerged in a strange new land. The next thirty hours were going to be game changers: it remained to be seen of exactly what kind.

He looked over at Kinch, who was methodically shutting down the radio.

"You'd better get upstairs to bed, sir," Kinch said as he continued his task, not looking up. Nothing remained of the amusement from a minute ago, neither in his voice nor his demeanor. "You're not in the best shape for a full night out tomorrow night, not to mention a parachute drop back."

Hogan nodded, but didn't move. "This is going to be big, Kinch. Whatever it is."

"Yes, sir."

Apparently neither of them felt like speculating. Hogan sighed, tired of the tension between them. So he grabbed the bull by the horns.

"You'll have charge of the unit while I'm absent."

Kinch stopped working, staring at the radio for a moment, then lifting his head to look up at his CO. "Yes, sir." His voice was deadpan and quiet; his face was set and tight. Hogan couldn't tell if he was angry, resentful, or relieved, or some combination of them all.

"You weren't all wrong this morning, but you weren't all right either," Hogan said flatly.

Kinch straightened up and looked back at him, very level. "I knew it was a judgment call, Colonel. I couldn't send LeBeau and Newkirk out to look for you instead of me: they'd lost their adrenaline rush and were so worn out that they were likely to make mistakes. Olsen's not in camp at the moment, and there weren't any others around who know the woods outside the wire well enough. Roll call was getting closer—dangerously closer. I thought if one or both of you had gotten near to the tunnel entrance but was hurt, you might need assistance and it might make the difference in getting you back in time. I was the only logical one to give it. I kept a close eye on the time while I was out, to ensure I got back here before roll call so I could try to come up with some kind of cover story for you."

Hogan scrubbed his face with both hands. "If you'd found us, I'd have been glad of the help getting Newkirk back," he admitted. "But there's a lot of space to cover outside camp, and you missed us. That's too easy to do out there. And I need that level head of yours here in camp when I'm gone: you have charge for good reason." He patted Kinch's shoulder, feeling his radio man straighten slightly in pride from the compliment as Hogan cracked a smile. "When I get back from London, we'll work on getting a couple of guys ready for this kind of situation so that you'll have someone to send if you need to in the future. Okay?"

"That's a good idea, sir." Kinch looked genuinely relieved. "I'd appreciate that."

"Go over the personnel logs and think about who would be good candidates. Let's have at least three, in case any of them get stuck in the cooler." Hogan rubbed his forehead, then his eyes.

"Will do, sir. And Colonel, if you'll pardon the liberty—and the repetition—you should go to bed." Kinch's gaze had nothing but sympathy in it now.

"You too, Kinch—you've been up as long as I have."

"I've had an easier time of it—I wasn't running for my life through the woods last night, nor was I—well, in Klink's office all afternoon." Kinch looked down and away toward the radio.

Hogan wondered what Kinch had been going to say before shifting to the euphemism for the interrogation he'd had to overhear. His bunk beckoned, but leaving the conversation on that note felt wrong. He rested his hand on Kinch's shoulder for a moment, just long enough to say, "Maybe easier in some ways, but still a hard job to listen in on it for hours."

"You were going through worse," Kinch answered uncomfortably, still not looking up.

"It wasn't so bad. Graff and Klink kept Hochstetter leashed. There's nothing wrong a good night's sleep won't cure." Hogan kept his voice casual, shrugging off the experience.

"Then you'd better get to it, sir—and plan a nap for tomorrow too." Kinch looked up again at last, a half smile on his face. "I'll chase everyone out of the barracks tomorrow so you'll have enough quiet to actually get some sack time. You'll need it tomorrow night—and I'm willing to bet sleep will be scarce for some time to come, once London tells you what they want from us."

Hogan nodded, lightly clapping Kinch's shoulder again. "I'll bet you're right. You'll be right behind me?"

"Always, Colonel."

How to answer that? Hogan just nodded, not trusting his voice, squeezed Kinch's shoulder a final time, and turned to climb the ladder up to the barracks as Kinch blew out the oil can light. He could hear his radio man—and right hand man—following him up before he got to the top.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Much of the dialogue of this chapter is drawn from the opening scene of Season 3, Episode 3 of Hogan's Heroes, "D-Day at Stalag 13," written by Richard M. Powell. I rely heavily on Mr. Powell's dialogue but have embellished it with Hogan's reflections and responses, based in part on Bob Crane and J. Pat O'Malley's creations of their characters in that episode, and I have made a few very minor changes. The British General is nameless in the credits for the episode: I have given him the actor's last name as a tribute to his realization of the character. J. Pat O'Malley played another general on another episode (General Tillman Walters, on Season 1, Episode 24, "How to Cook a German Goose by Radar,") but the general in that episode was American so I have kept the names and characters separate. I am grateful to Mr. Powell and Mr. O'Malley for their work on this episode—along with all the regular cast and crew of the show, of course—and acknowledge that all the rights to their work belong to them and the show's creators._

ooOoo

_Shortly after midnight, June 3, 1944_

Hogan stiffly climbed down from the plane on the tarmac, nodding his thanks to the pilot. His feet touched the ground—free British soil.

Did that make him a free man, albeit temporarily? One thought of his men at Stalag 13, waiting through the night for his return, ended that line of thought. No—he was as tied to the camp right now as much as if he were still in Germany.

"I'll have the plane ready to go when you're done, sir—get you back before daylight," the young lieutenant—impossibly young in Hogan's eyes—who had piloted the plane told him seriously.

"Thanks," he answered. They had kept to protocol: no discussion of the mission, or anything else beyond trading official recognition codes when the plane had landed in the field that served as the makeshift landing strip, lit by the flashlights Hogan, LeBeau, Kinch, and Carter had set up as markers. Hogan hadn't needed conversation: he had enough to worry and wonder about, given this required personal call to England, to keep him occupied for the flight—and he had wanted to avoid the temptation of back-seat flying, given the pilot's obvious competence. The flight had revived his itch to fly, but he knew he would have no chance to scratch it for a long time to come.

It was dark but clear, with just enough ambient light from the stars and waxing moon for Hogan to see his welcoming committee: two men. He heard, "This way, sir," from the one on the right and recognized the voice as Posh. He followed them wordlessly to a jeep. He could see the outline of a big building in the distance, which proved to be a grand country house when they pulled up in front of it a few minutes later. Hogan wondered if the landing strip predated the war or if it had been put in for secret meetings of this kind.

Not that he would ever know. He had only the vaguest idea of where he was, some ways north of London to shorten his trip, and in the middle of the countryside—as close to the middle of nowhere as possible in England for secrecy's sake, he was sure.

The vehicle halted and Hogan jumped out, looking up at the huge building. He hadn't expected "the castle" of the orders from last night to be quite so literal. He was willing to be that actual balls had been held here.

A door opened slightly: only dim light came out through the crack. Clearly, blackout rules were in place. Hogan entered and found himself in a large kitchen. Tradesmen's entrance apparently.

"In here, sir," said Posh's voice, now revealed in the light as belonging to a major in the British army. Hogan didn't ask his name, fairly sure he wasn't supposed to know it. Posh was gesturing to a hallway, and following him Hogan found himself in a small room with a desk and two chairs—and an American Class A uniform hanging on a clothes hanger from a peg. No hat, but he wouldn't need cover inside. He sighed with relief. They probably shouldn't take the time, but he could be quick. He started to shuck his leather jacket off as Posh closed the door. When the next tap came on the door, Hogan was redressed and knotting his tie. He slid into his tunic, swiftly buttoned its three buttons, and started buckling his belt.

"Ready, sir?" asked Posh.

"Yes, Major," Hogan answered, following him out as he finished buckling the belt and tugging at his tunic, hoping he looked straight. There hadn't been a mirror in the small room.

Posh led him up a set of stairs which opened into a hallway, then through a series of large, ornate rooms. This place belonged to someone _really_ rich. Hogan wondered where the earls or dukes or barons or whoever all this belonged to was while the military occupied their house. Fortunately, they passed two large, ornate mirrors on the walls, and he was able to check that he looked correct and then breathe a little easier. Posh stopped outside a wood door with a guard posted in front of it, knocking firmly—probably just to be heard inside, Hogan guessed, given the door's obvious sturdiness.

The door opened, and Hogan entered a wood-paneled room that looked like it was once a private study in pre-war days, and now served as an office. Churchill's portrait glowered at him from the wall, accompanied by a similar sized painting of King George VI just behind a massive wooden desk. General O'Malley had opened the door himself, and Hogan instantly offered a salute, which O'Malley returned.

"Hogan," O'Malley warmly greeted him, closing the door behind them. "Bit of a dirty trick, flying you to London for an hour of being a free man, and then dropping you back at Stalag 13."

Hogan had been studying the general, whom he remembered well from his time attached to the RAF and for whom he had felt respect and admiration and even a measure of affection during the hard-fought days of the Battle of Britain and then the Blitz, when O'Malley had gone well beyond merely keeping a stiff upper lip to sustain flagging men's spirits. Hogan had never served with an officer so able to find hope in the midst of despair. O'Malley had also been the major support for the operation at Stalag 13 in its founding and had overseen it since. He might have an Irish surname, but Hogan had always found him upper-crust English through and through. O'Malley looked a bit older now, more worn—but also buoyant, despite the late hour.

Hogan answered in kind, "Breaks up the day, sir."

O'Malley chuckled, "You're a good man," and clapped him on the back affectionately. He took two steps to a map of Europe on the wall, but drew down a second map of France over it. "This is it, Hogan: the day we've been waiting for. And here is how it will roll out." He guided his hand over the beaches of Normandy—not heavily fortified Calais, that tempting spot so close to England that it was visible from Dover on a clear day. Not Le Havre, with its useful port. Not Cherbourg, whose position at the tip of its peninsula would mean less water to cross but also an area easy for the Germans to bottleneck once forces were ashore. Instead, a broad swathe of beaches—Hogan remembered flying over them—that would provide a way for armies to fan out into France once they gained a foothold. That would be a brutal fight, Hogan was sure. A lot of Allied soldiers were going to die. But he was also sure they and their surviving comrades would prevail.

Studying the map, he decided to risk a question, given how much O'Malley was sharing with him. "When is D-Day, sir?"

O'Malley gently touched the Normandy coast again then firmly rolled the map up. "You must forget you saw that." He cocked an eye at Hogan, who nodded. "Now, I can't tell you the exact date—even to tell you this much had to be cleared at the highest level of intelligence, the old man himself—but, the date will be _soon_."

Hogan blinked. _Churchill_ had been consulted on . . . whatever this was that he had been brought over here for? Had _personally_ cleared _him_? He began wondering just what kind of rabbit hole he had fallen down. But he kept his composure and managed to refocus on the issue of the date. "It's been a long time coming, sir."

"A long time," O'Malley agreed, "and we don't want any mistakes—not on our part."

"Yes, sir," Hogan agreed.

"Of course, we could use a few mistakes from Jerry, and that's," O'Malley shook his finger right at him, "why you're here, Hogan. Have a drink?" he inquired, clapping Hogan on his right arm.

Strong alcohol in the middle of the night, on an empty stomach, with a flight back to Germany and a parachute jump ahead of him—and the Allied invasion of Europe as the topic of discussion? Hogan figured he could do without. "No, thank you, sir," he answered politely.

"Ah, don't mind if I do," O'Malley said, crossing the room to the sideboard that held two cut lead crystal decanters and a matching set of glasses. "Now, the German General Staff knows something is up," he said as he poured himself a generous helping. "They are meeting tomorrow to plan their strategy. That, we know for a fact." He raised the glass and took a good swallow.

Which day did "tomorrow" mean now that it was after midnight? "Very good intelligence, sir," Hogan answered with cautious respect. "Ah—tomorrow meaning the 4th?"

O'Malley drained his glass and smiled. "Yes, Colonel." He shook his glass at Hogan. "And we know more. Our bombers have pounded just about every spot in Germany they've used for a meeting place, so they're going where we don't think we'll follow: Stalag 13."

A knot formed in Hogan's stomach as he foresaw one possible logical conclusion to O'Malley's point. Would they actually— Surely not. But had the bastards in the brass pulled _him_ out, leaving the others so that— "You're gonna bomb us?" he asked, voice low, needing this answer to be the right answer more than for any other question he could ever remember asking a superior officer.

O'Malley studied him. "It's been brought up," he admitted as he turned and put his glass down.

Hogan found himself holding his breath and began running through plans in his head—how could he get to a radio and warn Kinch—but how many of his men could he save even if he could find one? The tunnels would be death traps in a bombing raid: they couldn't stand up to that kind of pounding right in camp. But the wood barracks huts on the surface would be just as bad. . . .

"—and rejected," O'Malley finished, looking back up at him.

Hogan relaxed and smiled slightly. He should have known to trust O'Malley on an issue like this, although he was quite certain O'Malley had told him the truth about the debate over this question to let him know how seriously command had taken this issue. Nonetheless, he was quite sure which side of the tactical argument O'Malley had taken. All right, whatever they wanted, he'd do it for them. Anything to prevent that other ruthless alternative. He was more than ready to listen.

"Which is where you come in, Hogan." O'Malley must have seen some of the inner turmoil Hogan had experienced. The general patted him lightly twice on right upper arm, pushing him toward the desk. "Sit down." O'Malley gestured at the chair in front of the desk for Hogan as he himself went behind the desk. But the general didn't sit; instead, he stood, leaning forward by resting his hands on the desk. "Hogan, you have quite a reputation for the offbeat, the bizarre, and for bringing it off."

Hogan gave credit where credit was due: "I have a good crew, sir," he answered with a smile. It wouldn't hurt to remind General O'Malley, however sympathetic to his unit the man had been, of the reality and importance of his men's lives and their contributions to the unit's effectiveness.

O'Malley nodded. "And you're going to need them." He sat down behind his desk. "Now, sometime in the next very few days, the greatest amphibious force in history is going to hit the coast of France. And when it does, we need desperately some indecision from the Germans, before they react. Now Hogan, we want nothing less from you than to tie up the German General Staff."

Hogan tilted his head slightly as he stared at the general, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

O'Malley returned his stare with a penetrating gaze. "Can you do it?"

So yes, he was serious. Hogan wondered if he looked as shell-shocked as he felt at the prospect of the order, however much it was phrased as a request for him to volunteer. And yet . . . it could make all the difference to the German response to the invasion if the generals were in disarray in some way. And they were all gathering right at Stalag 13, of all places. So very convenient. . . . He compressed his lips. "I must say, sir, it's quite a challenge."

O'Malley smiled, the look on his face both grim and proud. "That's good enough." He gave a small wink of his right eye, as if suggesting that he and Hogan were in on a secret together. Which, Hogan supposed, they were.

"The means . . . we'll leave up to you," O'Malley added.

So they were giving him a free hand, to be as crazy—or bizarre—as he needed, no questions asked. "Thank you, sir," Hogan answered, genuinely appreciating the faith O'Malley was demonstrating in him.

O'Malley got up and came around the desk, and Hogan stood as well. "Oh, and just one more thing. Our informant will also be at Stalag 13. She is the wife of General von Scheider, German Chief of Staff."

Hogan's spirits rose with that information. An ally in the enemy camp. That would be useful! "That's a pretty good informant!"

O'Malley was walking toward door; clearly the interview was essentially over. "Well, yes and no. You see, we planted her years ago before she married von Scheider, and after that we dropped contact with her, deliberately. Too risky. But she has continued to send information, including about this meeting. Now there's no reason to hold back. This is it. Use her if you can, Hogan. But remember, she's been away from us a long time. Don't trust her completely—unless you have to."

"Yes, sir," Hogan answered quietly.

O'Malley clapped him on arm one last time and opened the door. "Good luck, old man," he said genially. "Your driver will get you back to your plane." He gave Hogan's arm an extra squeeze, with an oddly meaningful look Hogan didn't know how to interpret.

"Thank you, sir," Hogan answered, saluting the General O'Malley in the doorway.

Hogan turned as the door close behind him as he turned, looking for the British major who had brought him there. But he wasn't there. Instead, a short, stocky but wiry American officer with gray hair stood on the far side of the room, back turned, examining a painting of a hunting scene, and smoking a cigar.

He turned, and Hogan looked across the room to the grim face of General Aloysius Barton.

ooOoo

_Author's Note: Among its many and various impossibilities, the timeline for "D-Day at Stalag 13" is historically impossible. The show has Hogan meet the general overnight in London, get back to camp that morning, the general staff arriving an hour later, and Hogan replacing von Scheider with Klink that evening, just before Operation Neptune begins. This would mean Hogan left for London late on the 4th, got back the morning of the 5th, and the invasion started about 18 hours later, just after midnight on the 6th. But there's this glaringly obvious historical contradiction: Eisenhower delayed the assault by 24 hours because of the weather: D-Day should have been on June 5th. So the timeline on the show absolutely doesn't work. (I know, along with a bunch of other problems. . . .) _

_So my solution to this problem (there's only so much I can fix) is to back events up a bit—and I realized the dialogue from the show had an ambiguous line I could exploit when the general tells Hogan the German General Staff will meet at Stalag 13 "tomorrow." You've probably experienced that confusion between clock time, calendar date, and lived experience—it doesn't feel like it is "tomorrow" until you've been to bed. The show seems to use the "tomorrow" as meaning the day that Hogan is currently in the wee hours of (the 5th), but I thought I could build in the needed 24 hours by making it more literal. That would give Hogan time to get back to camp on the 3rd, start working on the plan that day, have the generals arrive on the 4th with Hogan ready to move that night if needed, but holding off a day when the invasion doesn't happen till the first hours of the 6th._

_Most of you probably already know this, but "D-Day" is military shorthand for the day of any operation begins. In the episode, when Hogan guesses that the map refers to "D-Day," he is applying the post-war nickname for Operation Neptune (the invasion of the Normandy beaches), which was the prelude to Operation Overlord (the battle for Normandy as a whole). Since I (unlike the show) am trying to be a bit more historically accurate, I changed the line slightly to have Hogan ask the general when D-Day will occur, so that he means it in the conventional military usage, not knowing that the term will get tagged to this particular event in the future._

_Oh, and I fixed the post-war map of Europe with a divided Germany (a notorious props blooper in this episode) and took out the arrows—that would be a stupid thing to have hanging on the wall, no matter how good your security._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_June 3, 1944, 0100 hours_

Hogan immediately stiffened into attention and saluted General Barton, who put out his cigar in a brass ashtray and formally returned the salute. "At ease, Colonel," he said, crossing the room and holding out his hand.

Hogan shook it, feeling like the rabbit hole that had led to the Wonderland of the Allied invasion of Europe inside O'Malley's office had now somehow transported him unexpectedly into Oz instead. Dorothy couldn't have been more confused at landing there than he felt at the moment. O'Malley had known about this—that last comment had shown it. He had probably set the whole thing up. "You're my driver?" he blurted out, then cringed inwardly. How could he have said _that_ to a _general_?

Surprisingly, a smile tugged at one corner of Barton's mouth. "In this war a lot of us find ourselves doing work we didn't expect to do," he answered dryly.

"You can say that again," Hogan muttered.

"I wanted to talk with you—I've become quite a fan of your career since I got back from our first meeting. General O'Malley debriefed me and filled me in on what you've been doing with your assignment the last two years."

Hogan noticed that Barton didn't give out Stalag 13's location, sensitive, perhaps, to the presence of the guard at the door. If so, that was an improvement over how much he had been willing to say—in front of an enemy officer, no less—when he had been a temporary prisoner at Stalag 13 a couple of months earlier.

"It's a very impressive record, Colonel," Barton continued. "O'Malley let me know you were coming and why, and that you needed a uniform for the meeting. He said that I had this time—this very limited time—to bring you the uniform and meet you if I wanted. So I made arrangements to be here tonight. And I know you have a plane to catch, so let's get moving." Barton turned and headed back the way that Posh had brought Hogan, through the ornate rooms of the house to the back staircase.

Hogan followed on his heels, head whirling. Churchill briefed on his operation and General Barton bringing him a uniform and serving as a driver? His own supposedly vaunted bizarre imagination could never have come up with this scenario!

They rattled down the staircase, landing by the small room that held Hogan's everyday uniform. Barton gestured to the doorway. "Go on: I know you have to get changed to go back."

Hogan ducked in, relieved that Barton didn't follow him in. Army life disposed of body shyness quickly, and POW life did it even faster, but being undressed in front of a general—especially Barton, given the history between them—sounded like fuel for future nightmares. Instead, Barton stood just out of view in the hallway. No one else was around. As Barton started talking, Hogan listened while he pulled off his Class A uniform, preparatory to putting on his daily one.

"I owe you an apology, Colonel, although I'm going to wait to give it to you in a few minutes, when we're face to face again. I wasn't in the best shape when I first met you at Stalag 13. . . ." Barton hesitated, then plowed on. "Getting shot down and captured—it all happened so fast. I was angry, mostly at myself, and I took it out on you, which was particularly unforgiveable in front of an enemy officer. Hindsight is always 20/20, and now I can see what you were trying to do when we first met in the cooler, trying to get me out of there so you could get me out of camp with your operation. I should have trusted you as a fellow American officer, and I especially should not have believed anything that the enemy officer—and your jailer—said about you. I should have realized that he had his own agenda, at cross purposes with yours."

Barton paused in what had sounded like a rehearsed speech, and Hogan wondered if he was supposed to say something back. Like what? _Yeah, you sure as hell should have_ seemed unlikely to go over well, however true. Even _Yes, sir_ could carry insubordinate overtones given what the general had just said. Plus, Barton did seem to be honestly trying to make amends. So Hogan remained silent, starting to button his uniform shirt. He was well along with redressing, which was going to mean having to go out and face the general again soon. He wasn't looking forward to it—this was excruciatingly embarrassing. But he didn't have the luxury of time to make any delay.

"That inspection tour I made," Barton continued after a moment, "of the camp overall—I was pretty thorough, I think. I realize now, of course, that the men I talked to couldn't speak freely to me, both because of the Kommandant and your mission. But when I got back, the Adjutant General's office debriefed me, wanting descriptions of the camp, the barracks, the infirmary, the exercise and recreation opportunities—everything. I told them all I could. It seemed to me—and them—that you've done well with all that is in your control within the camp. You've been commended: we were able to make that public record."

Somehow, that rubbed in how much his men did without public acknowledgement of their work and sacrifice—and how much that was likely to continue after the war. Hogan knew it didn't matter so much for him: assuming that the Allies won the war and that he survived to their victory (an increasingly big assumption given orders like he'd gotten tonight), O'Malley would ensure that the right people in the U.S. Army and the Army Air Forces knew about Hogan's classified operation and its success. He was pretty sure his own career would be fine, even if the Stalag 13 operation remained classified over the long term. It was the lack of recognition, of public record, for his men that ate at him.

Hogan slid into his jacket and grabbed his cap. He closed his eyes for just one second and took a deep breath, summoning patience, which he felt he needed on a heroic level at the moment, then stepped out into the hallway.

Barton looked up at him, apparently surprised by his quickness. "You're fast, Colonel."

"I'm on a short clock, sir."

"Yes, I know. We'll get you there. But first, do you have any questions for me? You have permission to speak freely: that is the whole point of me being here to see you."

Hogan studied Barton for a moment, then reminded himself of what he had seen of Barton in Stalag 13. He was no Machiavellian thinker: he was a straight shooter. And Hogan had wondered, several times. . . .

"Why were you in that plane, sir?" He asked the question as neutrally as he could.

Barton sighed dispiritedly. "That's a question a lot of people asked when I got back. Many of them much higher in rank than you. In part, my answer is that I agree with General Patton's spaghetti theory."

Hogan wrinkled his brow. "I don't follow, sir."

"Patton said a couple of years ago, 'An Army is like a piece of cooked spaghetti—you can't push it; you have to pull it after you.' He was referring to how to lead men into battle. Generals can't always command from behind a desk. To keep soldiers' respect, the brass can't always be in the rearguard. I needed to see for myself how the bombing raids were going. Given your current command, I would think you would understand that well, Hogan."

"Yes, sir, I do understand the principle," Hogan admitted, "and its difficulties in practice. It's always hard to decide which missions need me in person, and which to send out my men without me. It can be harder to stay behind than to go with them—or without them—into danger. And I probably err on the side of leading them into action more often than I should, in part for that reason." He opened his mouth slightly to say more, then thought the better of it and shut it.

But Barton had seen his hesitation, even in the dim light. "Go on, Hogan. Say whatever it was."

"Often I go out because a fluent German speaker is needed, and we don't have many—or we need a particular physical type. Or we just need a certain amount of muscle or hands and feet, and again, we're a small outfit and don't have many. I allow very few of my men outside the camp on night missions, and only those with special qualifications."

"And you don't think those circumstances apply to me in that bombing raid," Barton answered the implicit critique, lifting his chin slightly.

"You're the chief of all daylight bombing, sir," Hogan answered, refusing to back down. Barton had asked what he thought: he was going to get it. "You have lots of officers to send: plenty of colonels, even other generals. But you're the _head_ strategist: the tactics in your head would be a bonanza to the Nazis if they got hold of it—and they nearly did. Never mind the propaganda plum for them of pictures of you as a captive to publish in the papers: if you had been captured by or turned over to the S.S. or the Gestapo, instead of the Luftwaffe, all that strategy and information would have been at risk."

"You had plenty to spill when captured but didn't, if the irrepressible Corporal Newkirk was correct," Barton countered.

_Newkirk, huh?_ Hogan had never been quite sure who had approached Barton: whatever his men had done had happened before he had come out into the compound from their barracks. But he was sure Newkirk had been aided and abetted by quite a few of the other men in camp. He wondered just what all Newkirk had been tasked with telling Barton. Well, he wasn't going to ask Barton—and it would have to wait once he got back to camp. Everyone on his crew was going to be doing a lot of work over the next few days. But the idea that Newkirk had spoken of Hogan's initial captivity to Barton was particularly disturbing—but at least Newkirk knew no more than the outline.

"They came—_I_ came—awfully close a few times," Hogan forced himself to admit, swallowing hard. He shoved those memories away forcibly, as he always did. Time to move the focus back to Barton, not himself. "And if you had been shot down closer to Berlin, or to the coast, we couldn't have helped you. We couldn't have gotten to von Heinke. You got—we _all_ got—very lucky. It could easily have gone another way."

Barton drew a deep breath, then let it go. "I do realize that, Hogan. Your assessment is correct. I know how much I owe to you and your team as well. And quite frankly, Hogan, I was lucky not to lose my command once I got back. I won't be flying behind enemy lines in Germany on bombing raids again—although with luck, skill, and successful strategy, I will be flying over the continent soon."

Hogan nodded. Although this location was secure, he felt as leery as Barton apparently did in openly mentioning the plan for invasion. It was too important, too precious, for anything more than the most oblique reference.

"There's another matter," Barton added, and Hogan had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The darkness of night was ticking away, moment by moment, and he needed to get in the air and headed back east to Germany. "That Negro sergeant of yours—Kinchloe."

Hogan abruptly froze, completely wary. However short the clock, now that Barton had brought this issue up he couldn't afford not to address the challenge with every wit at his command. "Yes, sir?"

"The situation there is . . . irregular."

Hogan eyed Barton, trying to gauge where the general's stance was. "Most of what I do at Stalag 13 is irregular in one way or another, General," he temporized. _At least he didn't say "bizarre,"_ he thought.

"He's important to your unit?"

Barton's tone was curious, Hogan decided, not threatening. But was emphasizing Kinch's key role a helpful strategy or not? Hogan decided a full scale defense of Kinch's contribution had to be best. "Sergeant Kinchloe is essential, sir. He is our radio man—without him we couldn't keep in contact with Headquarters. He is also one of our most fluent German speakers." Barton's eyebrows went up at that one, Hogan noted with satisfaction. "More than that, he is my right hand man in administering most aspects of the operation." Hogan debated going on, but decided that less information was safer in this instance.

"And the other men accept him—in that role and overall? Even living side by side with him?"

"Our arrangement works fine, sir. Everyone has complete faith in him. Starting with me. I couldn't do the job successfully without him."

"Well, that's what's most important." Barton shrugged slightly and Hogan relaxed. Clearly the general thought Kinch was an odd addition to the team, but he seemed to be accepting the situation given Hogan's assurances. Hogan could only hope that attitude would continue.

"All right, we need to get you to your plane, Hogan, and on your way back. This way." Barton moved through the kitchen toward the door. Following him outside, Hogan saw the jeep he had arrived in still parked outside. Barton climbed into the driver's seat on the right side, Hogan in on the left. Barton patted the dashboard before turning the ignition. "American made, but on loan to the British—like you, Hogan."

Unsure what to make of that remark, Hogan kept silent.

Barton put the jeep in gear. "I thought you would jump at the chance to come back home, given what I saw in that camp, and especially given that driveling Kommandant Klink. But you didn't. You stayed."

Abruptly Hogan put two and two together, remembering the whole Crittendon debacle. "_You're_ the one who arranged my transfer back home a few weeks ago?"

"It seemed only fair—you got _me_ back home. And you've been at that post for a long time: I figured you could use some rest stateside, and then we could use you back in the main war effort. You were a superb pilot and commanding officer, from all accounts, and I'm sure you would be again. Do you know that your successful strategy for the raid against the submarine base at Bremen is used as a model in training our officers?" Hogan shook his head, surprised. "Quite frankly, I'd like to have you on my team again," Barton added.

"I am on your team, sir," Hogan responded immediately. "Just . . . from a different angle than most of your other officers."

Barton took a deep breath and let it out. "Yes, of course you are. You wouldn't be standing here, right now if you weren't. And I admire you for sticking with your unit over there, despite all the drawbacks. I don't know what O'Malley has in mind for you in the upcoming days—and I'm not asking, for the record; I understand that it's need to know, and I don't need to—but I am sure that whatever you do will help us out when the time comes."

"I'll be doing my very best, sir—my whole team will be." Hogan could see the outline of the plane that he had arrived in looming up in the distance as he spoke.

Barton brought the jeep to a halt. Hogan jumped out and came around the front, eager to be on his way.

"Colonel Hogan," Barton said formally. He too had gotten out and was standing by the jeep, between Hogan and the plane. "One last bit of unfinished business. I said I owed you an apology for my actions at Stalag 13, and I mean to give it. I deeply regret insulting you in front of both Kommandant Klink and your men, without cause, and I do apologize for my unprofessional behavior and the embarrassment and difficulties it caused you. I particularly regret the nature of my insults to you. I hope you can find it in you to accept my apology and forgive me some day."

Again, the speech sounded formal and rehearsed—but the tone it was delivered in also sounded sincere. Barton had clearly put a good bit of thought into what he intended to say. Unfortunately, Hogan hadn't had the luxury of that kind of time, so he sought refuge in formula.

"Of course, sir." That seemed inadequate, so he added hastily, "I appreciate your gesture, sir."

Barton offered his hand, and Hogan shook it firmly.

"Fly safely, Hogan. And thank you for all the work you and your men do. I suspect you don't hear that enough."

"Thank you, sir." Hogan raised his arm in a formal salute, matched by Barton.

"There's your pilot." Barton nodded toward a small group of ground crew coming toward them out of the hut that served as a shelter and rough lounge for the small airstrip.

"Ready to go, sir?" the pilot asked, stepping forward from the group.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Hogan answered.

He followed the pilot climbing up into the Lysander, Hogan into the rear cockpit of the plane as the pilot slid into the front seat. Hogan felt only the smallest stab of envy as he strapped in: although he had always loved flying a plane, any plane, tonight he had more than enough to think about on the return trip. Time was going to be short once he got on the ground back in Germany: just getting back in time for roll call would be a challenge, not to mention all they would have to do in Stalag 13 to carry out the mission O'Malley had assigned them. He intended to make good use of the trip back to think through possible lines of action so he could hit the ground running.

As the engines fired up, he glanced out. For a moment, he could see General Barton standing off to the side, feet squarely planted and hands clasped behind his back, dim in the moonlight. As the plane began to roll slowly forward, Barton lifted his right hand in a wave, then disappeared from view. The plane gathered speed, lifted up, and they were away, into the night.

ooOoo

_Author's Note: The quotation from General George S. Patton exists in various versions: he seems to have come up with the idea in 1941 (that's when he's first quoted as saying something like it) and he referred to it a number of times in other contexts. I chose the version of it that seemed to work the best for Barton's point, but there are other phrasings._

_Hogan's raid on the submarine base in Bremen is mentioned in Season 3, Episode 17, "Two Nazis for the Price of One."_

_I owe thanks to R.S. Allen and Harvey Bullock who created General Barton in their memorable Hogan's Heroes episode "The General Swap" (Season 2, Episode 17) and to Frank Gerstle for his portrayal of the character. This chapter works off the final chapters of my revised version of that story, "Swapping Generals," but it should also make sense for those of you who haven't read it but know the original series episode. (At least I hope it does.) It also connects (much more tangentially) with my story "There's No Place Like Stalag 13," my revised version of "Hogan, Go Home" (Season 3, Episode 19)._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_June 3, 1944, sometime after 0200 hours_

Hogan stirred in his seat: the plane had been airborne for well over an hour, and during that time he had come up with the outline of a plan to carry out O'Malley's directive. Somehow the drone of the engines had been conducive to thinking, as the near full moon shone on their wings and filled the sky with light as they flew above the clouds. Hogan liked his plan: Klink had been fussing over his desire to make general just a couple of weeks ago—why not let him live his dream a little? After all, who better than Klink could keep the generals confused? There were still some twitchy parts to the plan, particularly making sure Klink didn't suffer afterwards for his role in the affair, and a lot would depend on the wife of von Scheider. She was a big unknown factor, until he could meet her and get a bead on her. That would tell him how she could help with the plan—if she would.

It was going to be a big job, requiring a lot of effort from his crew. But he thought the idea could work, if they were careful. He grinned to himself. O'Malley would probably think the plan suitably bizarre.

Thinking of O'Malley brought the encounter with Barton back to the front of his mind, out of the compartment he had determinedly shoved it into shortly after takeoff so that he could plan the mission. Hogan wasn't too happy with O'Malley for arranging the meeting: he didn't need the distraction given the gravity of the objective that O'Malley had set for him and his team. But he supposed that having the air cleared to some degree was a help—especially as far as Kinch's status in Barton's mind was concerned.

What was odd, Hogan realized while thinking back, was that he hadn't felt tempted in the slightest by Barton's suggestion that he should be back with the Army Air Forces, rather than commanding his current unit. In one sense he had made that decision long ago, when he had chosen to start the operation at Stalag 13 rather than try to escape, back when he had seen the possibilities for a unit operating behind enemy lines.

But the more recent epiphany that he'd had during the Crittendon debacle—that his place was at Stalag 13 for the duration of the war—factored in too. If he and his team survived—and Hogan wouldn't let himself consider any other outcome, because it was too easy to jinx results if he let himself second guess his judgment too much—he wouldn't be leaving the camp until he walked out the front gate, just as he had told Kinch a while back. Right before Barton showed up, come to think of it. He owed it to the Allied men of Stalag 13—his core team in particular, but also to all the men who helped with the operation and kept its secrets—to see them through the war. Home and family and rest had beckoned him when the orders to return had come through, but at this point he couldn't take escape and safety for himself and leave his men to the caprice of any other commander. He was still ashamed of himself that he had considered it at all last month.

He thought regretfully of his parents, but he was sure they would understand his decision to stay if they knew—not that he would ever be able to tell them about it. But now . . . the invasion was imminent. _At last_. All the families of the men at Stalag 13 had been hoping for this since they got the news that their loved one was alive but a prisoner. The next few days would bring great hope to them—and equally great fear and grief to many other families with sons, brothers, and husbands serving in the Allies' armed forces. And with good reason: enormous sacrifices would be required, not just from those who would first hit the beaches that O'Malley had indicated with a sweep of his hand, but also from all those who followed them to drive through France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and finally into Germany. Breaching the Atlantic Wall would open another major front, further splitting German attention from the Soviets, who needed the relief and no doubt would use it to their advantage in the east. A successful invasion would be the beginning of the end of the war—it just simply _had_ to succeed.

Although he couldn't be part of the direct assault, he and his men could do their part. They could have a real impact on _all_ those men's chances for success if his plan worked. He wasn't about to miss that opportunity. Barton had plenty of intelligent officers to manage the air assault during the invasion itself and the fighting to come afterwards. Hogan knew that he had been good at commanding a bombing group, and he appreciated Barton acknowledging that, but managing the unit at Stalag 13 took a far more varied and subtle set of skills that he excelled at—and that couldn't be easily replaced at this point in the war, even if Barton lacked the imagination, or understanding, to see that.

Hogan missed flying, but he had no desire to serve under Barton. He appreciated the general's gesture this evening, but they had vastly different personalities and command styles and they would mix about as well as oil and water if working within a command structure. Barton was a sledgehammer, and that was what the Allies needed in his position.

But Hogan preferred O'Malley's more nuanced, subtle touch. Even if they came from different armies and were seldom in direct communication, the two of them had always easily found common ground, and Hogan had been able to feel O'Malley's lightly directing touch in a number of the missions they had been assigned since founding the unit, especially after they moved beyond the "Travelers' Aid Society" into espionage and sabotage work. O'Malley knew how to handle men to get them to freely give their best work: Hogan had felt it working on him during their interview in the way O'Malley had structured his positive assessment of Hogan's work and then the mission briefing, all after having made clear how seriously HQ had considered other alternatives. O'Malley had phrased the mission itself as a request, but Hogan knew it had been a set of orders and he hadn't any real choice. HQ hadn't gone to all that trouble of bringing him to England for him to say no, plus they were holding the threat of that bombing raid in their back pocket. Nonetheless, O'Malley requesting his help in person rather than simply ordering him over the radio made a difference, especially on a project of this magnitude. Being told that Churchill knew about this also made a difference—a _huge_ difference. (That idea still made him reel.) Even being aware of O'Malley's command tactics while the man was using them on him hadn't changed their effects. Hogan wanted to do his British superior proud in this assignment.

Additionally, honestly speaking, he also found Stalag 13 more interesting as a unit to command than flying bombers had been. The work was varied—he never knew what was coming next—and it required a constant balancing act to keep everything running above and below ground. Granted, it was exhausting, and he was constantly under immense pressure in terms of London's needs and expectations as well as the weight of the lives of his men and the Underground units they worked with. But there were advantages too: despite living in a prison camp with all its privations and restrictions, in many ways he had greater autonomy as a commander than he would in almost any other position he could fill within the scope of the war effort. And that was because of O'Malley, whose command style gave him a long, loose leash and trusted him to deal with situations on the ground as they came at him.

That was worth remembering with the men in his own command. He had the best crew in the combined Allied armies: they were skilled, committed, and devoted. He couldn't ask for better.

"We're near the drop zone, sir!" The pilot's shouted information interrupted Hogan's musings.

"Right!" he shouted back, over the engine noise. He began gathering himself to prepare for the parachute jump. He had put on the parachute with its harness shortly after take off, but he went through a safety check again. The plane had had to land to pick him up at the beginning of this venture, of course, but Hogan had deemed a second landing in the same night too risky. Too much noise in one place; too much risk to his men to be out a second time, especially close to morning roll call. They could cover for him if they had to, but having more men missing would be noticed. It would also take more time to get the plane on the ground again. The parachute jump was risky too, but at least the risk was concentrated on him rather than including his men and the pilot.

Looking out of the plane, he could see well off to his right the lights of Stalag 13. Avoiding searchlights while trying to get out of camp was always a problem, but from the air the searchlights and other lights in the compound certainly lit up the place like a beacon in the blackout-shrouded landscape. The lights kept them all safe from accidental targeting by British night bombers, and for his operation they also provided the extra bonus of being a clear landmark for night drops for the operation. And speaking of night—this one was getting near its end. Hogan could see the first, faintest traces of light toward the east. He needed to be getting home.

Shortly afterward the pilot signaled that it was time to make the jump. Hogan leaped from the plane, into the dark, safely back behind enemy lines.

ooOoo

An hour later, Hogan slithered down into the tunnel, pulling the entrance shut fast behind him. It was alarmingly light and worryingly late: he'd had to hustle to get his 'chute buried and get back to Stalag 13 from the field he had landed in, while taking care to avoid patrols. The last thing he had needed was a repeat of the near-disaster from two nights earlier. He hurried down the tunnel. At least he had no need to change, since he was already in uniform: it had seemed most safe to be thought to be escaping if he had had the bad luck to get caught.

The radio room was deserted—just as it should be. Just a couple of oil lamps were burning to provide light for him. He had told Kinch firmly that he wanted all hands above, in case he came in late. He climbed the lower part of the ladder then paused to listen, hoping for the silence of a sleeping barracks.

No such luck. He could hear Schultz above him. "Where iss Colonel Hogan?" Given the extra sibilant on the verb, the sergeant sounded put out. Well, having his men stay in camp rather than come to meet him had just proved to be a good idea.

LeBeau's voice came next. "Where should he be?"

Then Schultz again, answering: "Rrright here! If he's not here I would like to know where he is!" After a moment's pause, the guard added uncertainly, "I think I would like to know where he is."

Time to let the guys know he was back. Hogan knocked against the top of the entrance, with two taps.

They should hear that, he thought. But what if they hadn't? He was sure his men could take care of Schultz. He tapped again, twice.

Schultz spoke again, demandingly. "Where is Colonel Hogan?"

Kinch suggested, "Why don't you take a look in his office, Schultz?"

Great idea, thought Hogan.

"I will!" Schultz proclaimed. His voice faded somewhat, suggesting he was moving away from the bunk, but Hogan could still hear him ask, "Is he in there?"

"No," Kinch answered, calm and matter of fact. "But by that time he may be out here."

Hogan grinned. That in a nutshell was why Kinch had charge of the unit in his absence.

Schultz's voice got louder with impatience. "I demand to know— Shht! Don't tell me!" His voice got further away, although it also seemed raised: "Colonel Hogan! Colonel Hogan! Colonel Hogan! Where are you?!"

Hogan heard scrambling footsteps, then the trapdoor opened. As the ladder came down, Hogan climbed up it. He could see Carter and LeBeau up top, Kinch behind them.

Hogan greeted them cheerfully, "Hi."

Carter, smiling in relief at his CO's safe return, answered with his natural informality, "How's it going?"

LeBeau meanwhile patted Hogan's left arm as he clambered over the edge of bunk. "Welcome home, _Colonel_!"

Newkirk, Hogan noted, was still in his bunk. Apparently his ankle had recovered enough for him to have gotten back to using his upper bunk instead of Carter's lower one.

From the office came Schultz's voice, now at full bellow: "Colonel Hogan!"

"Somebody call my name?" Hogan asked ironically.

Schulz bustled back into the main room. "Colonel Hogan! Where have you been?" he scolded, shaking his finger in admonishment. "I have strict orders from Kommandant Klink that nothing out of the way should happen in the next several days, that everything has to—"

Just at that moment LeBeau moved injudiciously, bumping his head against the bunk's hidden mechanism. The trap door rattled down into place, interrupting Schultz's rebuke. Hogan sighed internally. Schultz did his best not to see their various escapades, to the point that Hogan sometimes wondered what made the old soldier so determined to _not_ see and not interfere. But the team usually tried to avoid flaunting their activities quite so obviously as this right under Schultz's nose, especially when the sergeant was under pressure, as he clearly was at the moment—and when their own stakes were so high, as they certainly were now.

Schultz stammered out another couple of words before totally losing the ability to speak, staring at the bunk and its hidden tunnel in horror.

Oh well, sometimes all you could do was brazen a situation out. Hogan had plenty of experience doing that with Schultz, and he seriously doubted that Schultz would report what he had just seen to Klink: Schultz knew that "monkey business" went on in Barracks 2 and that it could mean his own hide if any of it was officially discovered. So Hogan looked back at the bunk, where Schultz was staring, then insouciantly back at the guard.

"Something wrong, Schultz?" he asked lightly.

"I see nothing!" Schultz asserted, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself—and no wonder, given the evidence of his own eyes. "Nnnothing!" He darted toward the door and then through it, as fast as he could manage. It slammed behind him.

Hogan's men nearly mobbed him in curiosity over his trip as Newkirk swung down from the bunk to join them, landing only slightly gingerly.

"What happened in London, _Colonel_?" LeBeau asked as Hogan moved down to the end of the table, where he could put his foot up on the bench and stretch his back a little after the long night.

Newkirk naturally had to have the first word on anything to do with England. He draped his arm around LeBeau's shoulder. "Hey, did you get a chance to visit Ginger? Goes anywhere, anytime, day or night—"

Newkirk had, in fact, offered up half a dozen names and phone numbers to Hogan as they had been waiting for the plane, trying to break the tension. It hadn't really worked: Hogan had ignored him, too consumed about what the trip might be about.

Carter, however, took umbrage, apparently feeling the need to defend his CO's honor, despite the impossibility of any kind of liaison in the short time he had been gone. "If you think my commanding officer would do a thing like that—"

They didn't have time for this. Hogan put a stop to the incipient argument. "All right, hold it, hold it—small talk later." His crew all stilled and looked at him intently. "We've got work to do. The German Army General Staff is due here by the end of the day. They'll be meeting here over the next couple of days."

Hogan had expected his crew to be surprised, and he wasn't disappointed. Shock showed on all their faces as they stared back at him.

Kinch was the first to recover speech. "You're kiddin'."

"Straight stuff," Hogan assured him.

"_Here?_" LeBeau asked incredulously.

Carter was the one to move beyond disbelief and into strategy. "I'll design my greatest bomb!" he promised, his voice low and intense, enthusiasm shining from his eyes.

That, of course, would end their operation—and them personally as well as the German General Staff. Hogan appreciated once again O'Malley's far-seeing intentions: he wanted the effectiveness of the generals compromised—without losing his behind-the-lines unit.

"No violence," he warned them. "Psychological warfare." Time to start moving forward with the plan he had devised on the way back. "Now, who does the best Hitler?" Hogan had his own ideas on that, but it would help to have the team on the same page.

"Audio or visual?" Newkirk asked.

"On the phone," Hogan answered.

LeBeau replied instantly, "Kinch."

Newkirk jerked his head toward Kinch as LeBeau spoke. "No doubt about it," he affirmed, just as Carter said indignantly, "Kinch!"

"Yes, Kinch does the best," LeBeau said, Newkirk agreeing with him, as they overrode Carter's pique. Kinch, in the meantime, managed to look both happy with Newkirk and LeBeau's vote of confidence and annoyed with Carter.

Hogan shut down the debate. They didn't have time for it. "All right, all right: that's all set. Now this is big—the biggest thing we've ever handled. I'm probably not supposed to tell you what it is," he looked embarrassed, then determined, "but I wasn't ordered _not_ to tell you, and I think you deserve to know what you're working toward—plus you'll need to know it to carry out the plan I've come up with."

He had their full attention: they were all watching him, focused and intent.

"Invasion?!" Carter guessed.

Hogan felt somewhat exasperated at having his thunder stolen, but he nodded. "Yes. This is it. And although we won't be on the front lines, we're going to give the best chance we can to all the boys who will be."

"They will liberate France," LeBeau said—and it was not a question. Determination shone in his eyes.

"Yes. And everyone else too, when we all win. So let's get to work."

_Fin_

ooOoo

_Author's Note: As many of you will have recognized, I changed the dialogue from the show slightly for this final scene, mostly for reasons I've discussed in notes to earlier chapters: partly to reflect the changes in timeline I've introduced to fix some problems of the original show, and partly to reflect accurate terminology of the day. I treasure the expression on Hogan's face after Carter guesses what the project is about and tried to preserve that, although I don't think the scene is quite as funny without Carter's original line. I also have always disliked Hogan's refusal to share the purpose of the mission at that moment, especially since he would have to explain what was going on given how he uses his team later in the episode (Kinch tracking radio jamming, etc.). So I gave him the intention of sharing, even if Carter still steals the line from him._

_Interestingly, Richard Powell, the writer of the episode, did base part of its premise on historical reality. The German reaction to the invasion was much slower than it should have been, partly because permission to move Panzer divisions could only be given by Hitler (as General von Scheider observes in the show). Hitler was asleep when the invasion started, and his aides didn't dare wake him against his orders, also as shown on the show. When Hitler did wake (late in the morning), he initially refused to believe that the day's events were the main invasion, believing D-Day was a feint to draw attention away from the real invasion. Thus Field Marshal Rommel's hands were tied in terms of bringing up tanks to help repel the invasion until it was too late, and the Allied beachhead was well established. The aide Klink speaks to is also a historical person: Martin Bormann was personal secretary to Hitler, who trusted him to handle most of the domestic policies of Germany. The historical facts concerning Hitler on that day are so incredible that it is easy to take them as part of the show's comedy, as Powell worked them so skillfully into the script._

_My story's title comes straight from one of Hogan's lines in the show, and it's a phrase that he repeats later in the episode when talking with Lilli von Scheider down in the tunnel: "Right now I've got time to understand just one thing. We've got a thousand ships crossing the Channel ready to hit the French beaches, and I've got work to do." Given that emphasis within the episode, and the enormous amount of time, effort, and sacrifice that so many real people put into Operations Neptune and Overlord, it seemed a fitting tribute._


End file.
